


The Devil Came Down to Teufort

by The_Idonian



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Some accents, The Devil Went Down to Georgia- with a twist, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Idonian/pseuds/The_Idonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a battle goes terribly wrong, Medic becomes trapped in the most terrifying place he can imagine- his own mind. He's not alone either. What would you do if you came face to face with your own inner demons?</p><p>This is not just the story of how a popular song came to life with a Team Fortress 2 twist. This is the story of how Medic picked up the violin again.</p><p>Inspired by The Devil Went Down to Georgia, by the Charlie Daniels Band</p><p>There is also art! Skilled, wonderful, amazing art. So as to avoid spoilers, the link will be in Chapter 10. Please check out the artist, who has since moved to http://x-sternenfeuer-x.deviantart.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story of triumph, of action, and hopefully one that the reader (That's you!) will enjoy. It also comes in two parts. There is a lot of buildup and backstory, so for those of you who want to skip to the main action, find the chapter labeled 'Part Two' in the directory. You'll miss a lot of important stuff, but you'll get right to the excitement. For those of you who want to read it from the start, you've come to the right place!
> 
> The inspiration for this actually came from an artist on deviantart called Doodle-master. Their work, Medic and the Devil, was what started the fire in my head (heh) and got me thinking. But I suppose that the root of all of this is the wonderful song. Please go look at their work! http://doodle-master.deviantart.com/art/Medic-and-the-Devil-157405744
> 
> Many thanks are due to my wonderful beta, penguinlove2506. Without her, none of this would have been started. You can find her at: https://shye-bird.deviantart.com/  
> Many thanks are also due to a wonderful writer called SanctusCecidit, for her advice and wisdom. She's an amazing writer, check out her work at http://archiveofourown.org/users/SanctusCecidit among other places.
> 
> CYA: Valve stuff belongs to Valve. All original characters belong to me. This story is quite obviously fiction. Any resemblance of characters, places, organizations, and things to any aspect real life is coincidental. If I forget to cite any references, feel free to leave a comment and I'll take a look.
> 
> On with the show!

_Clink._

_Clink._

Medic shook his head as his vision blurred. Picking up his forceps, he turned his attention back to the task at hand. _Clink._ Another piece of shrapnel was removed from the Demoman’s back and placed in the metal bowl on the table.

_Clink._

They won. Today. Maybe they would lose tomorrow. He was too tired to care. _Clink._ It didn’t really matter, did it? After every battle he would remove shrapnel from whoever made it back to base without respawn, and then do the paperwork. Whether they won or lost didn’t change anything. He sighed as he thought about the onerous task ahead.

_Clink._

The Demoman lifted his head slightly, taking care not to move his body. Having your back cut open and under a low healing beam while the Medic fished around in your torso had an amazing sobering effect. “What’s wrong? Is everythin’ ok, doc?” he asked.

Medic blinked, lifted a particularly uncooperative piece of intestine, and plucked the piece of metal out. _Clink._

“Ja, nozhing is wrong. I am merely focused on my vork.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that. “Ah.”

Medic compared the x-ray he took earlier to the number of metal pieces in the bowl. Satisfied, he cranked up the power on the Medigun. Blue healing beams knitted organs and muscle, and the Medic leaned into them just a little. He could sleep when his work was done, so for now this would have to do. Completely healed, the Demoman stretched and stood up.

“Thanks, doc! I owe ya one,” Demoman said.

Medic waved his hand, sitting back. “Nein, don’t mention it. Is zere anyvun else outside?”

The Demoman poked his head out of the operating room, to the rows of chairs placed outside the door. “Nah, ye’re good,” he called back. “I’ll be headin’ oot then. Will we be seein’ ye at tha’ celebration?”

Medic rubbed the blood off of his hands, then scrubbed at his face. “Nein, I have papervork to do. I vill see you tomorrow.”

The Demoman seemed eager to leave and didn’t try too hard to convince him. “Alright. Take it easy, doc.”

Medic waved him off and stood up, wincing at his sore muscles as he did so. He sprayed down his tools and surfaces with some isopropyl alcohol and walked to the other end of the operating room to where his office was. He glanced longingly at the small cot tucked into the corner, and then forced himself to turn to his desk. The pile of paperwork loomed ominously.

He sat down and pulled the first file towards him, glancing at the clock. 7:24. If he got all of this done, he might have time to grab something to eat before he slept for a few hours.

It was 11:19 when someone hammered on the medical bay door outside, jolting Medic awake. He peeled his face off of a piece of paper and looked down at what he wrote.

 

_...the arm from radial to distal phalanx was found later on the roof, with thumb missing. Thumb located inside Scout’s lower intestine after battle and removed._

 

The hammering continued. “Yo, Doc! Ya in there, Doc?”

Medic adjusted his glasses and eased himself upright, stiff muscles protesting as he walked out of the office. He grimaced at the operating room door, then glanced down and grinned evilly. When the door opened, Scout was greeted by the sight of Medic holding up a large syringe.

Scout backed up quickly. “Whoa, woah, hey! Not cool!”

“Ja? You vant somezhing?” Medic asked, advancing.

“For you tah stop pointin’ that in my face! Jeez!” Scout yelped. “Oh, and ah, Heavy’s lookin’ for ya.”

“Scout!” a voice bellowed from down the hall. Medic pocketed the syringe and poked his head out to see Heavy marching down the corridor. Scout took one look at the advancing figure and sprinted down the hall.

“See ya later, doc! Gotta run!” Scout called over shoulder.

Heavy approached, frowning. “Did Scout wake you? I break his arm if he did.”

Medic moved his glasses and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Don’t harm ze Scout, it vill only make more vork for me. I vill deal vith him later. Vhat do you need?”

Heavy looked concerned. “Did you eat, Doktor?" He shoved a sandvich into Medic’s hands as he asked.

Medic was surprised and looked down at wrapped sandvich in his hands. “I- uh, danke, mein freund.” He leaned into the door frame.

Heavy put a hand under Medic’s chin and lifted it gently. “Is Doktor ok?”

Medic laughed weakly. “I zink zat right now, I vould sell my soul to get a proper night’s rest.”

“Then go. Do not worry about paperwork. We have weekend for that,” Heavy said.

Medic started to protest, and it turned into a yawn. “Alright, alright, I am going,” he waved Heavy back. “I vill see you tomorrow, danke.”

 

Thinking back from the vantage point of hindsight a few weeks later, Medic decided that this was perhaps not the best choice of words.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed that the characters have accents, some thick enough to cut cheese with. I personally appreciate a little accent use, because when I read it's like a movie. With accents, I can 'hear' them a little better in my head and feel more realistic. If they're too thick for some people to understand, let me know and I can email them a cleaner version.
> 
> A note on the missing thumb: Mediguns seem to operate by healing skin and organs back to their unperforated/uncut state, but are really bad at removing foreign objects. This can be seen in the Meet the Medic video, when Medic's dove Archimedes gets stuck in Scout's chest! The scene would go something like this: Someone explodes, Scout is dying of massive organ rupture, and Medic gets to him in time to save him. He survives the battle, and the thumb is only noticed and removed during the after battle check-up.


	2. Memories

Heat shimmered in the air, and the fact that the clock proclaimed the day to be ending soon apparently hadn’t been told to the sun as it gleefully roasted everything caught in its rays. Outside, the base was quiet and life itself slowed in response to the oppressive heat.

Pyro drew a flower in the dirt outside of one of the buildings, clapping happily. The little firebug could never understand why nobody else wanted to come play outside when tiny sparkles hung in the air, and eventually accepted that some people just couldn’t be helped and went by itself.

There was just so much to do! It could go out looking for the frogs that lived under the bridge and see if they enjoyed the rainbow party yesterday. Or maybe it could pester Medic to give it a few feathers from Archimedes’ cage to play with. Then Pyro could see if the bush with the pretty flowers was in bloom again.

None of this could ever compare to the beauty of dancing rainbows, but yesterday when the firebug had played with colors it got shooed outside.

Something in the weeds by a few pieces of twisted shrapnel caught its eye, and the mask turned quizzically. Scooting over for a closer look it found a baseball, scuffed but otherwise intact. Softly hooting with delight, it looked around quickly. Scout would be mad if Pyro took one of his precious baseballs, but what he didn’t know about wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Pyro snatched the baseball and its flamethrower, balancing the ball on a stream of hot air. Pyro gave the stream a little more fuel, and watched it fly up. _Whoosh!_ It bounced upwards again and again as the little firebug giggled.

“Hey! That’s my ball! Gimme that back, ya freak!”

Pyro’s arms jerked in surprise, sending the ball soaring away on a blast of air as the Scout skidded to halt next to it. They both watched the ball sail in a graceful arc out of sight. A second later, there was a crash followed by the tinkle of glass and harsh cursing in German.

Scout looked at Pyro with murder in his eyes. Then Pyro pointed over Scout’s shoulder, hooting something urgently.

Scout turned around to look. “Spy?” When he had turned back the firebug was gone, sprinting into the building.

Light dawned on Scout. “Hey! Get back here!” He shouted, chasing after Pyro.

\-----------------------------------------

 Medic swept the litter from the bottom of his dove cages into a waste basket and smiled happily at his birds bobbing and cooing on the floor contentedly. He placed a small bag of fresh wood shavings on his desk by the window, bending down to tickle Archimedes’ chin affectionately.

It all went wrong with a sudden crash as something smashed through the window and collided with the bag of wood shavings, sending it spilling into the air and plummeting to the floor. The bag thumped into the center of the bird flock and birds leapt into the air in terror, creating a feather and wood shaving storm that swept through the office. Medic was knocked to the ground swearing as they settled on the shelves in panic.

When Pyro burst into the office with Scout hot on his heels, they halted in front of a very angry Medic struggling to his feet in the center of a room covered in wood shavings, feathers, and papers.

Medic blew a feather off of his face. “Vhich vone of you verdammt dummkopfs is responsible for zis?” he growled

Scout fidgeted in place, hesitant to enter. “I-ah... ah, there’s my ball!” He dashed into the room, kicking up a cloud of feathers as he pelted to the corner and snatched the offending object from a small pile of wood shavings. He turned around and would have made it out if he wasn’t then neatly fielded by the Medic, who grabbed him by the collar.

“Hey, c’mon man!” He struggled as Medic adjusted his grip.

“Zis is your fault zen? I vant an answer!” Medic said in a cheerful tone of voice that suggested bloodshed was a millisecond away from being an option.

Scout pointed at Pyro and yelped “It was Pyro! That nutjob took my ball! Do it to him, I like my organs!”

Pyro still hovered in the doorway. “Mhh huddah mur hur, muh hurdur.”

“You stay out of this, mumbles! It’s not like he’ll disem… dissen…” Scout paused, his brow furrowing, “what was that thing where ya take out tha’ organs?”

Medic sighed and rolled his eyes. “Disembowel.”

Scout turned back to Pyro. “Yeah. That thing.” He lunged, trying to squirm free of Medic’s grasp.

“Do you vant to do zis ze hard vay, Herr Scout? Who threw zat ball?”

“I told you! It was Pyro!’ he yelled

“Muh uh!” Pyro mumbled.

Medic grumbled “Fine, zen.”

Medic sent Scout staggering at Pyro. “Pyro, tell zhe Engineer about ze vindow. You,” he pointed at Scout, “find a broom.”

“But I-”

“Raus! Shnell!” Medic snapped.

As they hurried out of the room, Medic scooped up some of the clean shavings and spread them on the bottom of the cage. Was it really so hard to get even a few moments of peace? Apparently, it was. He could be doing anything from tinkering with his Medigun to practicing medicine, and people would still barge in on him. Granted, that one time when Soldier walked in when he was operating on the Engineer was pretty amusing. It had taken the combined efforts of Heavy and Demoman to drag Soldier over to see him after the next battle. The man had thought that rubbing dirt on bullet wounds and walking it off would solve all of his problems, the dummkopf. There was always some ailment to cure, some argument to settle, or some other verdammt reason for someone to bother him. If that wasn’t enough, for every problem he solved, another two would spring up in its place. Perhaps another examination of the “drop your pants and cough” variety would encourage them to give him a little space. At least for a little while, until they forgot again.

He turned to look at the birds clustered on the bookshelf, refusing to move. Medic filled the box in the cage with some feed, clucking quietly to them. They fluttered down as one to his desk and began to hop into the box until all of them were inside pecking at the seed.

Well, almost all of them. Medic smiled at Archimedes as he fluttered up to his shoulder, and closed the cage door. Then, he surveyed the damage in the room. There were wood shavings all over his filing cabinet, his floor, and desk. Feathers drifted in the faint breeze from the window, and already the dust from outside was starting to collect. He picked up some papers off of the floor and brushed some sand off of his filing cabinet, depositing the pages there.

A draft ruffled some of the feathers collecting in his bookshelf, and when he bent down to pull them out he noticed a wooden case shoved in the far back corner behind some file boxes. He froze, as if an inanimate object could judge him.

How could he have forgotten? Of course it had been years… but some things should be remembered.

Medic drew out the case with unsteady hands. He brushed wood shavings off of his desk and laid it down carefully, rubbing off a thick layer of dust. How long had it been since he’d even looked at it? Far too long.

Archimedes hopped down from his shoulder to the desk, bobbing over to peck at one of the clasps.

“Archimedes, stop zat,” he chided. Archimedes cooed in response, eliciting a smile. “Ja, ja, I vill open it, be patient.”

He smoothly undid the catches, ran his hand over the worn and scratched wood, and slowly opened the lid. Stiff hinges ground open and Archimedes peered inside. Nestled on musty, threadbare velvet was an old violin. Its finish was chipped and scratched, but it had been carefully unstringed the last time it was touched.

And just like that, it was as if no time had passed at all.

 

_“And this, mein kind, is called a bow. It is strung with horsehair and drawn across the strings, like this.”_

_“Herr Wiezel, how do you put the strings on?”_

_The man’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and looked down on the little boy sitting next to him in the gutter. “Let me show you.”_

Medic blinked, realizing that he had been staring off into space. Faint footsteps pattered out of the hallway, through the operating room, and into the office doorway.

Scout appeared holding a broom. “You wouldn’t believe what I had’ta go through ta get this. I didn’ even break the window.”

Medic stared at the violin. “Just leave it by ze door.”

“Wait, really?” Scout asked, surprised.

Medic waved him off. “Ja, just go.”

Scout peered into the office. “Hey, what’s that?”

Medic looked up sharply. “Do you vant me to give you a reason to stay?”

“No! I’m good. Hey look at the time, I really gotta go be somewhere else now, so bettuh’ find out where that is. I like my organs, they are really awesome still inside’a me, ya know?” Scout babbled, leaving the broom by the door. “See ya doc!”

The operating room doors slammed shut as Scout ran out, leaving Medic alone again. He considered the old violin again. It had been so long since he’d touched it, would it really be worth stringing it?

 

_He couldn’t play after… that happened. It seemed somehow wrong to just pick it up and play it by the alley where they had laughed in the weak sunlight. So before he went back to his family, he carefully unstrung the instrument. Willing himself not to cry, he coiled the strings inside the case, carefully placed the instrument next to it, and clicked the clasps into place. Then, he picked up the case and began the cold walk back home without a second glance._

 

His heart ached to see a piece of his childhood after so long, but perhaps by now it would be a sort of tribute. Psychology was a weaker science than many to Medic, but he knew that the battleground he lived and died in every week probably wasn’t good for anyone’s mental health. He loved music, more than free beer at Oktoberfest. Well, he might want to revise that. Music was all very well and good and beneficial to the soul and all… but a good stein and a handsome herr by your side were not to be sneezed at.

He willed himself to close the case and put it away. To go back to his desk and start sorting through his papers. But his gaze kept returning to the strings, coiled as neatly as he had left them when he put them away years ago. He knew that after all these years he would sound different, but he could learn again. And it would be a way of expressing himself, showing everyone how good he was in another way. After all, if Engineer could play guitar and Soldier could croak out his cacophony on the horn, Medic’s music would be an improvement.

He realized that he was talking himself into it. Remember why you put it away,  he chided himself.

But a growing voice inside told him to shut up.

Almost trancelike, he lifted the violin out of its case. He unwound the strings and began to put them on the instrument, just like he remembered. Medic marveled as hands that for so many years had held a scalpel or a bonesaw moved under muscle memory, turning fine tuners,  twisting pegs, and aligning the bridge. His hands delicately tightened the four strings into place, and he ran his fingers on the age stained wood in approval. It was a relief to know that he could still do it.

But, now there was no point in not playing. The violin sat on the table calling him like an attractive fraulein promising the world, only to mug him in the dark alleys of Memory Lane.

 

_“But being Linkshänder is bad!”_

_“Only if you believe it is, kind. Do not worry.”_

_The young boy refused to believe this. “I am beaten at school if I use my left hand, Herr Wiezel. How can it be good?”_

_“It’s a part of you, and you must accept who you are. And your left hand can be used to create beauty! We’ll start with how you hold the bow.”_

Medic reached into the case and drew out the bow, rubbed a little rosin on the strings, and positioned it in his left hand. He fumbled a little, but he persevered and placed his fingers in the correct spots. Satisfied, he put the bow down and picked up the violin, resting it on his right collarbone. Adjusting his right hand to hold the neck, he adjusted his posture and picked up the bow.

At last, the moment of truth. He drew the bow across the strings gently, to see if they would hold up to pressure after all these years. A note rang out horribly out of tune, but Medic’s heart leapt at the excitement of success. Archimedes fluttered up to his shoulder, curious, and he smiled and started to see what he remembered. He would be able to tune it later, for now he reveled in the joy of playing.

He slid his fingers up in down, drawing the bow back and forth as he slowly worked through a few notes, an arpeggio, and started on one of the few scales he could remember. His eyes creased in concentration as he worked with the strings, until with a twang one snapped. Archimedes flew away in surprise as two more snapped with a dissonant ping. Medic jerked in surprise, and sudden disappointment welled up inside. He should have expected such old strings to snap long before that, but now that they had that was the end of it. He highly doubted that they were sold in town, and while he could afford the high price of having some shipped into the middle of a warzone, it would be pointless. He really didn’t have the time for something as frivolous as this, and this was the sign that he should just put it away again and forget about it.

“Is that you, Doc? I thought I heard a cat dyin’.”

Medic looked up in surprise to see the Engineer holding a new glass pane for the window and his toolbox in the doorway. He felt a faint murmur of irritation at yet again being interrupted.

Medic shrugged at the broken strings. “Vell, you need not vorry any longer. I vas merely seeing if it vould still play, und zat is no longer ze case.”

Engineer walked into the room, putting down his tools. “Now, hold up, pardner, it ain’ over yet. Can I take a look?”

Medic put the violin down on the table and stepped back, hovering protectively. The Engineer leaned over it and pulled his goggles up his forehead to get a better view. He twanged the last intact string, and fiddled around with the broken ones, whistling quietly.

After a while Medic was starting to feel impatient, wondering what could possibly be taking the man so long. It was quite obviously unable to play, so there was little reason for him to tinker with it. The thought of the Engineer taking his violin and turning it into some crazy new invention irritated him. Or even worse, he would take the design of something perfectly good and try to “improve” it, ending up with some metal plated monstrosity that no one could ever understand his enthusiasm for.

The Engineer looked up. “I could fix ya up somethin’ real easy, if you’re up for it.”

Medic glanced at him uneasily. “Vhat exactly do you have in mind, Herr Engineer?”

The shorter man straightened up and smiled. “Well, I could make ya some strings out of steel that’ll work just as good. I use them myself in my guitar.”

“Vill zis hurt ze violin?” he asked.

“Not at all, Doc, I give you mah word as a Texan,” the Engineer replied.

Medic hesitated. The violin would most likely work if he had these new “steel strings”, and they would probably last for quite a while. On the other hand, in this war he rarely had time for an uninterrupted meal or a full night’s sleep, so it was unlikely that he would ever get the chance to play. But, if he could make time for the occasional chess game, he could make time for this.

“Vell, I suppose you can try… I’ll take off ze strings for you. Danke, Herr Engineer.”

Engineer chuckled. “It’ll be mah pleasure, doc. I’ll get these back to ya in a couple of days.”

He unwound the remains of the strings from the instrument, coiling them the best he could before putting them in the stockier man’s hands.

“Now, you run along and get somethin ta eat, ya hear? I need space ta fix the window before the base gets filled with sand, and you need ta get somethin on your ribs.” Engineer said.

Medic snorted. “Did Heavy put you up to zis?”

The man flipped his goggles back onto his face and reached down into his toolbox. “‘Course not, pardner, everyone needs a breather, even you. Go out there and give em’ all hell, ‘specially Scout. That jackrabbit’s been a pain in my ass today.”

“Alright, alright, danke schön. I vill see you later,” Medic nodded at him.

He looked around at the mess and at Engineer chipping out the window panel. He knew it would be a pain to clean up, one of many things he had to deal with. Sighing, he walked out the door and resolved to deal with it after a good sandvich. Engineer was right, everyone needed a break sometime.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to give Pyro a gender. As far as I care, Pyro's gender is Pyro's , and I'm not going to assume what their pronoun should be.  
> If you look carefully at the way Medic plays the Amputator in game, he is actually left handed! Another little tidbit is that if you look at some of the art from TheMinttu, who is a major source of canon, he actually appears to be left handed. For those who don't know, TheMinttu actually created a lot of the art seen in the comics, like A Smissmas Story. In this picture, his pen is closest to his left hand, so it's pretty possible that he's either left handed or ambidextrous. http://theminttu.deviantart.com/art/TF2-Archimedes-no-219986425  
> A lot of people portray Medic as playing the violin right handed, but it is possible to play left handed, so I'm rolling with it.
> 
> German:  
> verdammt dummkopfs: damn fools  
> mein kind: my child  
> Linkshänder: left handed


	3. The Past Restored

Medic was sitting in the kitchen a few days later staring blankly into a mug of vile, yet life sustaining coffee when the Engineer came over bearing a small package.

“Here ya go, pardner, sorry it took so long.”

“Hmm?” he looked up and blinked at Engineer as he placed the paper packet on the table. Medic placed the coffee in the table, reached over and pulled it towards him. He unwrapped the paper to find four strings coiled inside. Or at least at a moment’s glance, they looked like strings.

Rather than the creamy white or tan of the strings he remembered from his past, these were made of very fine wire. He adjusted his glasses, squinting, and he saw very faint coiling patterns on the thickest wires. They glinted very faintly in the light, and felt very much different from the catgut he was familiar with. Medic looked up at the Engineer, confused.

“Eh… Herr Engineer, vhat are zese?” Medic asked.

The Engineer turned to pour a cup of coffee. “Those are strings made out’a metal. You may want to experiment with the tunin’ and all, but they should work jes’ like the ones ya gave me. Oh by the way, those are in the bottom.”

Medic peered into the paper wrapping and sure enough, the old strings lay broken and forlorn in the bottom. He couldn’t contain his disappointment. The man had meant well, he was sure, but this was of no help at all. They wouldn’t fit on the violin, and even if they did they wouldn’t sound the same. Metal strings! Who could play on something like that? He had never heard of it, but wanted to humor the Engineer’s willingness to help.

This was surely worse than if he had just put away the instrument and never bothered with it again, because for a brief while he had held some kind of childish hope. He would just have to thank the Engineer, and then put them away where no one would see them again. The Engineer would certainly understand if he was too busy to play, and then he could forget about the strange shimmering strings.

“Danke, Herr Engineer,” Medic said, trying to contain how crestfallen he felt.

“Hey, no problem.” He half choked on the coffee. “Phleh! This stuff is worse than motor oil. How long has it been in the pot?”

Medic shrugged. “I believe zat Herr Sniper hasn’t come inside for two days.”

“That long, eh?” Engineer tipped it into the sink. “Well anyways, I’ll be interested ta know how those work out. I coiled them a little differently than a guitar string, so when ya try them out jes’ give me a holler on what ya think.”

 _Scheiße._ He wasn’t getting out of this. Part of Medic just want to make the violin sound as terrible as possible for a few hours, and when the rest of the base had been driven mad by it, he could stop and discourage the man.

But a pang of guilt arose at the thought of this. The Engineer tried to be nice to everyone, tried to be friendly and go out of his way to help someone in need. He couldn’t count how many times he’d had a firm hand drag him behind a sentry gun or some other cover after he’d been knocked back by explosions in battle. When he was on your side, he was there until the bitter end. He didn’t have to spend the time or effort on making the strings, yet he had because the Medic cared about it. The realization tasted sour in his mouth.

The man had done something nice for him, and asked little in return for this beyond simply knowing if it worked. Even if the Engineer was a kind man, Medic knew that to deliberately waste his time and efforts would influence how often he extended a hand. So he would have to try the strings, and perhaps a little participation in Engineer’s experiment would do him some good.

“Of course, I vill see if I can try after I complete ze battle papervork.”

Engineer looked up from rinsing out the coffee pot. “Sounds good, thank ye kindly. Will ya be around for dinner? Pyro’s making something, sounded kinda like lo mein.”

The offer was tempting. The food that Pyro made was nothing like his home country’s, but it was very good. Some of the others would complain that it never made anything besides Chinese food, but when Pyro cooked there were no leftovers.

Medic put the packet in his pocket. “Ve shall see how much I can get done, ja? Danke, Herr Engineer.”

Medic got up and tipped out the rest of the foul brew, heading back to his office for the next onslaught of after battle paperwork. They had lost today’s battle, so only a few of the team had returned injured instead of through Respawn. The hours bent over the operating table left Medic with tight muscles that he doubted even Heavy would be unable to sort out, and he still had to write up the injury reports.

He rounded the corner and found Pyro taping up something on Spy’s door. The figure turned around at the sound of his approaching boots.

“Hurrro, Mrrrdddck” Pyro guiltily mumbled.

Medic squinted at the piece of paper on the door, which appeared to be a doodle in crayon of a rainbow world and a shadowy dark figure walking through it.

Medic was not sure if he was disturbing him. “Eh, hello Pyro.”

“Rrryeh muh damrr, Mrrrddck?” it asked.

Even after all this time, it was still a mystery to Medic how the Engineer could understand the firebug. But it seemed that they were regretting something. Perhaps it was for the window, but as far as he was concerned it was just another annoyance to be dealt with and forgotten.

Medic clasped his hands together. “Zat’s a good drawing, Pyro. Is it for Spy?”

Pyro nodded. “Huddah.”

“Vhile I know for a fact zat your heart is in ze right place, try not to upset him today, ja? Ze RED Sniper kept him busy. He may not vant a pretty picture right now,” Medic replied.

Pyro looked back at the drawing, hooted, and took it off of the door. He turned and held it out to Medic expectantly.

Medic took the paper, confused. “You vant me to have it? Um, eh, danke. It is very nice.”

Pyro clapped happily. Medic patted it on the back, and continued to his office. Pyro was in many ways like a child, and once he learned to think of the firebug that way, it became much easier to deal with it.

He placed the drawing on his desk and sat down, picking away at a few long overdue reports. Occasionally he would glance at the picture and its dark aberrant figure, far out of place in the colorful world. Medic dreamed of someday finding the root of Pyro’s mental state, and what it could mean for scientific advancement. The possibilities were endless, and his mind wandered a little as his pen scratched over paper. The black figure bored into his mind, and after a while he turned the drawing over.

 

_Two bullets were removed from the right upper deltoid and muscle damage repaired. Bullet graze along right temple repaired, as well as cartilage damage to right ear. Perhaps liberal use of the Medigun will improve his listening skills._

 

Medic placed the final file aside and glanced at the clock. It read 7:23, and he knew that while Pyro liked to get in the kitchen early, his meals tended to take a while to prepare and cook. It would be at least an hour before the firebug would set off a few fireworks to announce dinner.  

He leaned back in his chair and picked up the packet of strings, considering them. He probably wasn’t going to get a better time than this, and if he could push away the feeling of pointlessness for an hour, he might be able to enjoy testing it for Engineer.

Medic reached under his desk to where he stowed the case, placing it down on the papers and opening it. He slid the strings out of the packet and considered them as he looked at the violin. They were silvery and different, but perhaps a violin of the past would not mind the strings from the present. Maybe it would be like a melding of his own past and current life. Yes, that would do.

Medic strung the bow carefully, turning pegs and aligning the strings on the bridge. He quelled the feeling of apprehension and focused on adjusting them to fit the instrument. When it was finished he picked up the bow, closed his eyes, tilted his head towards the violin, and began to tune by ear.

 

_“Once you can remember the exact sound that the A string makes, you will tune to this string, the A string, by using something called the unique sound of fifths.”_

_“So, they are five notes apart?”_

_“Yes! Listen to this.” He took off his threadbare gloves, and played a note on the violin. “The D and the A strings make a unique sound when played together. If I tweak this out of tune and play again, ah! Do you hear that dissonance? I’ll show you how to find these unique sounds no matter what.”_

 

These strings sounded much brighter and crisper, but they were similar enough to catgut that he pressed forward. Medic felt his excitement begin to grow as the notes tuned to each other, the pitches settling into the pattern of unique fifths under his care and concentration. He picked up the bow and readied it with a sliver of rosin. Settling into a stance, he picked up the instrument and balanced it against his right collarbone.

Medic inhaled and drew the bow against the strings. It sang out clear and beautiful, and his heart leapt. He tested it gently, running up and down scales, arpeggios, and simple snatches of song. He closed his eyes as he concentrated, smiling as he leaned into the music and let his fingers wander in paths long untraveled.

_It was a cold and grey morning, and his mother was standing in yet another long line for rations. He kicked at the curb with his hands in his pockets, wrapping them around a few cans of soup and a piece of bread. There were no other children around, and he was paid little attention by the people going about their business or huddled on the sidewalk._

_He soon began to hear a faint song rising in volume and strength, creating a cheery melody strange and foreign to the depressing atmosphere. His curiosity piqued, the young boy stood up and followed the sound. The music’s lilting melody wound up and down, leading him to an alley where a man stood in threadbare and ragtag clothes playing a violin. There was an empty cap by his feet, and as he played he tried to catch the eyes of downcast passersby._

_The boy crept closer, mesmerized, and the man looked over and winked. He smiled shyly, and the man began to play with flair and grace as the boy watched in awe._

_“Mein sohn! There you are!”_

_The boy looked around guiltily to see his mother advancing on him with a scowl, packages in her arms.  He looked back at the alley violinist, put his hand in his pocket and quickly put a piece of bread in the cap. The man beamed at him, and he ran back to his mother with the joy of music in his ears…_

Medic’s fingers fumbled a bit, slipping on the strings and pulling him out of his trance. He adjusted his pose and looked around. The light was fading outside, with a few building lights starting to flicker on. He laid the instrument down and looked at the clock to find that a few hours had passed. Shocked, he realized that the entire time that he had been playing, no one had bothered him.

Stepping out of his office, he walked to the operating room door and opened it. To his surprise, he found Spy sitting in one of the chairs outside smoking a cigarette.

Medic adjusted his spectacles. “Eh, good evening, Herr Spy. Is zere somzhing you need?”

Spy shrugged nonchalantly. “Bonsoir, Medic. I was simply enjoying a quiet smoke,” he stood up and brushed off his suit. Then, he reached under the chair and picked up a plate of food. “Pyro sends their regards, or at least zhat’s what I thought I ‘eard.”

Medic was touched at the thoughtfulness of the little firebug, but especially of the Spook. He couldn’t help but repress a little shudder every time he heard even his own teammate uncloak, and sometimes his back ached when it rained. In really bad weeks, he flinched at shadows and pressed himself against the wall. He knew that it was Spy’s job to be mysterious and lurk, know things that no one else alive knew, and it all made the man very aloof, sarcastic, and reserved at times. The fact that he took the time to bring Medic something to eat and sometimes did seemingly out of character, random acts of kindness made him wonder just how much he cared about the rest of the team.

Medic took the plate of food and smiled. “Danke, Herr Spy. You didn’t have to sit out here und vait, you know.”

Spy waved dismissively. “It was no trouble. Besides,” he said as he turned to leave, “you don’t sound half bad. Au revoir, Doctor.”

Medic blinked as the man slipped around the corner. The Engineer’s strings had worked well despite his misgivings, and for that he owed him thanks. No one had disturbed him the entire time he was playing, and someone had actually appreciated his music. Perhaps, he considered, it might be worthwhile to play again.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't believe how much research I had to do about string instruments in order to write this. There are actually a couple of different types of strings. Catgut is made from sheep's intestines, and after a while it wears out. Steel strings were invented just around the same time that Engineer made some for Medic, just around the early 1970s, late 1960s. Considering how smart he is, I figure that he could have been a little ahead of the curve.  
> Is it possible to tune a violin by ear, using the 'unique sound of fifths'. This takes a lot of practice, but it's like a bicycle in the way that you can remember how to do it, given enough practice.  
> I like to imagine that Medic is constantly laboring under one task or another, whether it be a mountain of paperwork, settling disputes like the team mother, or working on some scientific project. If I had to do that, I would be just as annoyed and crazy as he sounds.  
> Medic is probably in his late 40s by 1968, so that would mean that his childhood would be smack in the middle of the Great Depression and German time of reparations after WW1. This was a rough time to grow up in. To all aspiring writers out there, do your research!  
> I recommend listening to a song called Arran Boat Song by Darol Anger for this section. I think that it fits well. :)
> 
> German:  
> Scheiße: Sh*t


	4. Sonata

The moon was high in the sky and the stars twinkled and danced on a dark blue canvas. A few dim lights flickered in important sectors of the bases, just bright enough to illuminate the bats dipping and soaring through the night.

Sniper tapped a beer bottle against his boot and looked over at where Demoman was sprawled on the corrugated metal roof. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. You wot mate?”

Demoman burped drunkenly. “I’m not kiddin’ ye, a whole horde of em’.”

Sniper shifted on the roof, leaning back. “And ya want me ta believe that a few stickies and a propane tank took the whole lot out?”

The other man took another swig. “Yup. Tha’s what happ’ned.

“Hmph.” Sniper tilted his head towards towards the roof, where he could hear a conversation happening below.

“It’ll just be for a little while Doc, the fresh air will do you good.”

“Da, Engineer is right. Is not good for you to be inside all the time.”

“Vell... I suppose it can vait. You may be right; I should get out.”

“That’s the spirit! Bring out your violin an’ knock back a few beers with us. S’a fine night fer it.”

“I vill be up in a moment, danke.”

Sniper sat up as he heard scuffling and the sounds of someone on the roof ladder. Engineer and Heavy appeared in succession and he tipped his hat to them.

“Evenin’, mates,” Sniper said.

“Howdy, fellas. Mind if we join y’all?”

“Not at all,” Sniper replied.

There was more scuffling by the ladder as the men sat next to Demoman, and Medic came up the ladder clutching his violin case, breathing heavily.

“Is Doktor ok?” Heavy asked.

Medic pushed his spectacles up his nose and smiled faintly. “Ja, I vanted to avoid Herr Soldat. He is making everyvun in ze base recite ze American pledge.”

“If he tries that oot here he’ll be gettin’ a bottle to tha’ helmet,” Demoman groaned.

“Last I saw him, he vas trying to find Spy,” Medic said.

Sniper chuckled. “He’s got a better chance of finding his own arse than that wanker.”

Spy chose that moment to materialize on the roof, sitting on the far side. “I ‘eard zhat, filthy jar man,” he said politely, lighting a cigarette. Medic suppressed a flinch; it had not been a good week.

Sniper smirked. “Told ya.”

“Indeed, here I am,” Spy replied coolly. “Will you be playing tonight, Doctor?”

Medic shifted his grip on the case, placing it carefully on the roof. He undid the clasps, drawing out the instrument and balancing himself. He hesitated a little, uneasy at playing in front of so many of his teammates. As a man of science Medic was always striving towards improvement, but he would sometimes get frustrated with his lack of skill. Heavy had been very encouraging whenever he listened, but Medic made sure to find time to get ever better. He felt that he owed it to himself, and to his past.

Heavy smiled supportively at him, and he pushed past his unease. Settling into position, he began to work his way through a few scales, and then progressed into an etude. Medic focused on the melody and harmony of the strings, weaving the notes into the song of the night. The background faded away and left him with music and memories that came to life.

 

_“Back again, junge?”_

_The young boy stood at the edge of the alley and nervously peered in. The man sat cross-legged on a pile of old sacks and looked up from patching a jacket. Bushy eyebrows raised away from kind eyes as the man put the jacket aside and adjusted his weathered cap to look at the child._

_“It’s alright kind, there’s no need to be afraid of me. Is there something you want to say?” he asked, beckoning to him._

_The boy crept closer. “I really like your music,” he blurted out._

_A smile lit up the man’s face. “Would you like to learn how to play the violin?” he asked._

_The boy hesitated, and then nodded._

_“Good! If you want to learn, come to see me every day at, oh, about this time. No money is needed, but bring some food with you when you come. Can you agree to that?”_

_“Yes sir, thank you sir,” the boy saluted._

_The man coughed into a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Don’t bother with formalities, call me Herr Wiezel. I’ll see you tomorrow then, go on.”_

Medic’s hands shifted, and he let his hands wander wherever they chose. He tapped his foot faintly in time with the music, shifting as if in a dance. His pace quickened and grew lively, and he reveled in his experiments with the music as the rest of the men watched in impressed silence.

 

_With time, he learned that Herr Wiezel was formerly a member of the orchestra, but had been unable to continue once the Fatherland had fallen into hard times. There was no work to be had, and he was barred from government work due to not being Aryan, but he still had his violin and that was all he needed to get by._

_He was a strict teacher, but he encouraged the boy to work hard and improve his technique. One of the boy’s proudest moments during these lessons was when he became good enough to attract a crowd. It dispersed once the police approached to look for extremist groups, but Herr Wiezel let him buy a little chocolate with the money they left behind as a reward. Those were the good days._

 

The music became calmer, then slowed and blended into a smoother melody. His tempo slowed and drew to a close, and he froze in place savoring the last note. Medic straightened and opened his eyes. The men were staring at him in awe, except for Demoman, who was probably passed out.

“Well, that was really somethin’, Doc,” Engineer said weakly.

Heavy clapped. “Very good, Doktor!”

“Was that your own composition?” Spy asked.

Medic lowered his bow and smiled. “I suppose it vas. I’m glad zat you liked it.”

“That was pretty darn good. Do you know any songs we could hum along to? If it’s not too much to ask, that is,” Engineer asked bashfully.

Medic frowned. “I don’t think zat I know any songs you vould know, I’m sorry.”

“What about Wooden Heart, Doktor? Elvis sung that,” Heavy said.

Medic tapped his chin. “Muss I Denn? Ja, I could do zat.”

He lifted the violin back up and began to play a simple melody, soft and low. Once the melody drew to a close he repeated it a few times, performing it slightly differently each time, just enough to keep the listener’s interest. It was soothing and slightly mournful, speaking of loneliness and sadness. Each man felt a little bit of their own private loneliness at the soft and beguiling tune.

Sniper remembered how it felt to hold his mum’s hand, how soft and papery the skin was, and the scent of the perfume she wore. It was flowery, the kind old ladies buy because they think it makes them smell like a midnight rose garden or some other rubbish. Sometimes when he went into town the local grocery store would have fresh flowers, and it would almost smell like her. Those were the days he put extra quarters into the phone booth.

There was a little cafe in southern France that Spy had loved years ago, where he would often meet a contact to pass on sensitive information. She was beautiful and smart, and he enjoyed her company and wit. She gave him a lock of her hair at their last meeting so that he could remember her. It was long lost, but for a moment he could remember her laugh and the shine in her eyes on the sunlit patio.

Sometimes on the quiet nights out in the heart of Texas, Engineer would play a few songs on his guitar and share a beer with the other men. He always played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star at the end of the night no matter how much the guys ribbed him, because his little girl loved that song. She would laugh and giggle as a baby when he played it for her, and it brought him back to the nights sitting by her cradle. When he went away to war, she gave him her first bear, named Teddy Roosebelt when she just learning to talk. He carried it into battle on the days he needed strength the most.

Once the cold came into Siberia, that was the hardest time. Human emotions, compassion, empathy, everything that separates man from beast withered away as ordinary people were driven to fight the cold, hunger, and each other in order to survive. Sometimes Heavy would see his mother or sisters working across from him in the gulags, just trying to meet their labor quota so that they could eat. Many were not as strong as him and became dokhodiaga, emaciated goners on the verge of starvation and death. They had empty, cold eyes, and one day his littlest sister stared with empty cold eyes too. Seeing that gave him the strength to make sure that she never looked that way again. He never thought he would, but in this hot dry land he missed the snow.

The Demoman was beyond paying attention to the music, but he dreamed of walking the shores of the Loch by his home, looking for Nessie. He could hear her calling out alone, and he thought of how he screamed his rage to the lake once his adoptive parents were killed by the bomb he was making to blow up the monster. In working for what he dreamed of, he lost what he had. He was just as alone as Nessie.

Scout sat inside by the base of the ladder, his arms around his knees, headset around his neck as he strained to hear the music. His ma worked hard for every hour God sent her, and when she couldn’t work she cleaned. She scrubbed and laundered and sewed and sang as she worked. Sometimes they may not have had much food to put on the table, but that table would be clean if she could help it. No matter how hard she tried though, she could not keep her boys clean in the Projects of South Boston. When they brought home money, she tried not to ask where it came from. The house never felt emptier to Scout than when half of his brothers were in prison, and his ma stopped singing.

Medic was lost in the music. He could feel the rhythm and soul beneath the simple tune, and he felt alive. This was worth the stolen time, the hours of practice. This was the feeling of being attuned to the music, and through it the land around him. He let the melody dwindle away, almost as if rocking it to sleep in the final note. The men slowly stirred, and seemed uncomfortable and unwilling to look each other in the eye. Down below, Scout crept off; while they were out there he could read a little without being bothered.

“Have you heard zat song before, Herr Engineer?” Medic asked. “It’s not somezhing you can really hum, but it’s a little less, eh, energetic.”

“That was just fine, Doc, just fine,” Engineer said in a faraway voice. “But we should let you sit and enjoy your night too.” He turned to the others. “Isn’t that right, fellas?”

A couple of them voiced agreement, and Medic smiled. “Danke, Herr Engineer, especially for zhese strings.”

Engineer smiled. “Fer a performance like that? It was well worth the trouble, and my pleasure. If yah need anythin’ else, my workshop’s open to ya.”

“Danke schön. Herr Sniper, vould you pass me a beer?”

Sniper handed Medic a beer and he settled down to watch the stars. At times being out in the desert could be lonely, but on that night they talked and laughed to the point where they didn’t feel the loneliness anymore.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever looked up Siberian gulags? That, my friends, is messed up.  
> The 20s-30s was not a good time to grow up in Germany, there was a lot of internal turmoil. The reparations demands really brought the country to its knees, and angry and desperate people will do all sorts of things.  
> Elvis really did sing Muss I Denn to a puppet on camera once. It's creepy as get all, and you can find it on youtube if you wish.  
> The comment about Scout skulking off to read is a reference to a lovely fic called It Rained the Whole Time, the loud obnoxious Bostonian learns to appreciate a good book. The story maintains all of their characters with far more humanity than is regularly seen in the game, and is a true delight to read. It doesn't change the way the characters act, it celebrates it in a way that is all too hard to find in a good fanfic. You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291843
> 
> German:  
> Danke schön: Thank you  
> Junge: boy  
> Kind: child  
> Herr: Mr


	5. Irony

_It wasn’t safe to be on the streets anymore._

_The police were on the lookout for delinquents, yet they did little to stop the former Freikorps militants from attacking anyone that they thought were Communists. He watched a man be beaten in the street by Freikorps militants who thought he was a socialist. Aryan supremacists paraded alongside nationalists and Nazis, denouncing the homosexuals, disabled, capitalists, Marxists, Romani, Africans, pedophiles, and Jewish._

_Some of the music that Herr Wiezel played became banned, and it was difficult to play on streets where at any moment one of the passersby could attack for any reason. The boy was often told to hide behind the crates in the alley if a large group of men was approaching, and not make a sound as Herr Wiezel tried to avoid being a target. As time passed, it was only a matter of time before someone made up a reason to clear the streets of the homeless._

_Herr Wiezel was like an uncle to the boy. He would often hang around the alley when he didn’t have to help his mother, and Herr Wiezel would jokingly try to shoo him away._

_“Go away, you little rat! What do you think I am, a babysitter?” he yelled, chuckling. The boy laughed and stuck out his tongue, running past him into the alley. They would take turns playing Herr Wiezel’s violin soon, but for now they laughed with each other in the weak sunlight._

_“You there! Stop where you are!”_

_Herr Weizel froze and looked down submissively as a group of men in uniform approached._

_“Where is the boy?” one of them snapped._

_“I-I don’t know what you are talking about.” he stammered as the young boy hid behind some boxes._

_“You’re lying. We know what you’ve been doing, you filthy pervert, and you’re going to pay for it.” The ringleader said as he whipped out a club and beat the man on the head with it. Herr Wiezel collapsed and dropped his case. One of the men pinned a pink triangle to his jacket, and two of them started to drag him away. The boy wanted to run out and scream at them to stop, but he obeyed Herr Wiezel’s orders and stayed hidden. One of the men picked up the case and looked inside._

_“Do you think that the Sonderstab Musik will pay for this one?” he asked one of the others._

_“That? It is trash. Throw it back.” the leader replied._

_The man shrugged and tossed the case into the alley. The violin bounced out and skidded against the ground, and the men walked away, taking Herr Wiezel with them._

_The boy crept out of hiding slowly, looking around for anyone watching. Then he ran over to the violin, picking it up and examining it. It gained a long scratch, but was otherwise undamaged._

_He knelt in the alley silently for a long time, holding the violin. And then, when he knew that Herr Wiezel was not coming back, he carefully unstrung the instrument. It wasn’t until he had gone home that he started to cry._

“Doktor, wake up!”

Medic gasped, his eyes flying open. Everything was blurry, but he could just barely make out the blob in front of his face as Heavy. He fumbled around for his glasses, and felt them being pressed into his hand. He put them on and the concerned face of Heavy came into focus. Medic’s fingers came away wet, and he realized that he had been crying in his sleep.

“Are you alright, Doktor? You were yelling,” Heavy asked.

Medic drew in a shaky breath, and he sat up and wiped at his face. “I will be Heavy, ja. It was just a… bad dream.”

Heavy scooted closer to him and patted his back. “It is Friday. Today is good day for battle, you will be RED baby’s bad dream.”

Medic smiled fondly at Heavy. “Zey won’t know what hit zem.”

\---------------------------------------------------

 

Medic turned on his Medigun and tried to quell the sick feeling in his stomach. He just knew that today wasn’t going to be a good one.

“Mission begins in ten seconds,” the Announcer’s voice crackled over the intercom.

“Ready, Doktor?” Heavy asked.

Medic smoothed back his hair, narrowing his eyes. “Jawohl, Heavy. As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Five”

Soldier beat himself on the head with his shovel and shouted incoherently. Demoman rolled his eyes.

“Four.”

Medic turned on his Medigun, pointing it at Heavy.

“Three.”

Pyro giggled excitedly, tightening its grip on its flamethrower. Spy reached over and lit a cigarette on the pilot light.

“Two.”

Medic glanced over at the lockers, and saw a doodle on his cubby hole. It was colorful, but a dark figure stood in this one too. He jerked his gaze away.

“One.”

“Let’s waste em’!” Scout shouted.

The men poured out of Resupply Room howling war cries. Medic rushed out after Heavy, his coattails flapping in his wake. Heavy’s gun started whirring, and soon the roar or bullets came forth, accompanied by the screams of opponents.

Medic began to feel the bloodlust rise in him, and a slow grin spread across his face. This was it! The excitement, the battle of man against man, and the wonderful blood that was being spilled. The two pressed forward while the others advanced their positions, Scout sprinting out in front to capture the Intelligence.

The sounds of explosion and gunfire all combined into a wonderful melody, and Medic licked a little blood off of his lips, chuckling. He loved the smell of blood in the morning. He heard a hissing noise behind him, and he whirled around in panic to see the RED Spy behind him.

“Spy!” he howled. He clumsily dodged the balisong wielded against him, knocking the masked man in the chin with his Medigun. The man staggered back, and Medic began to laugh as he reached for his bone saw.

“Help!” Heavy shouted behind him, and Medic lunged at the Spy with a mad grin on his face. His eyes twinkled in delight as he beat back the Spy. The RED Spy staggered and Medic plunged his blade into the man’s shoulder.

Medic laughed. “Ze healing is not as rewarding as ze hurting!”

There was a sudden crack, and everything went dark. He hung in a silent, sensationless void. Medic waited patiently until he saw a white flash of light, approaching, enveloping. There was a sensation like a whole body sneeze, like being sucked through a very small straw. Then there was a sensation of falling, of hitting a bench. He opened his eyes in Respawn and rubbed at the faint remnants of a headache.

Hoping that their own Spy would get into the RED Sniper’s nest soon, he got up and ran out through the Resupply back to the warzone.

“Alert! The enemy has taken our Intelligence!”

Medic swore and started running towards the sounds of gunfire. A bullet whipped by his head as he ducked back behind a wall. Demoman ran past him screaming war cries, quickly followed by Soldier waving his shovel. He poked his head out in time to watch Soldier be blown into bloody fragments of gristle, showering the area. A RED blur darted past.

“Wave goodbye to your secret crap!” the figure shouted.

Medic ran after him, trying to hit him with his needlegun. The RED Scout rounded the corner and went right into the fray. There came a sound like an approaching scream, and the BLU Soldier landed on the Scout with a squelch.

“The enemy has dropped our intelligence!” the intercom crowed. Medic spotted Heavy and rushed to his side, and together they began to advance towards the enemy lines to retrieve the suitcase.

On the edge of his hearing Medic heard a thumping noise and watched with horror as grenades started to fly at them. The explosives bounced in front of them and detonated, obliterating Heavy and sending Medic flying backwards. He hit the wall behind with a sickening crunch.

Pain blossomed in his back and head, and he slumped to the ground. The Medigun clattered unnoticed beside him. A high pitched ringing shrieked in his ears and he felt a warm trickle of blood down his neck. His vision was getting dark around the edges, and as he blinked he noticed something strange.

There was figure in the heat mirage moving towards him. Time seemed to slow, and he watched it approach apathetically. He blinked again and it was a few feet away. It almost looked like a Spy in a suit to Medic, but his vision blurred as he tried to focus through cracked glasses. He wondered absentmindedly if it was their Spy.

As the figure approached, the ringing in his ears faded to the sound of a low, malicious chuckle. It almost looked like a shadowy Spy in a pinstriped suit. He smelled smoke. He blinked. It grinned as it leaned over him. It reached out a hand to him, and his head erupted in agony as it lifted his chin up.

The last thing he heard before he blacked out was laughter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Part One! Thanks for sticking through it, folks.
> 
> Freikorps were German volunteer units that operated kinda like militants, or 'free regiments'. In the early 20th century they fought against the newly formed Weimar Republic and other left wing groups. Some consider them a precursor to Nazism, and they would often roam in gangs and fight in the streets and countrysides. Naturally, this was bad news for anyone caught in the crossfire.  
> Sonderstab Musik was a task force responsible for seizing musical instruments, especially Jewish made ones. Many violins were taken during this initiative, and now they're worth millions. The men who took Herr Wiezel were just looking for an excuse, were probably bored, and wanted to see if they could get a bounty on the man's violin. Also, the pink triangle is a reference to the patches that different types of prisoners wore. The pink patch was worn by the homosexual, or the pervert. They didn't really need a good excuse, any would do. People are messed up. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pink_triangle  
> A note about Heavy and Medic. I don't write pornography, but I've seen enough evidence in the comics and videos to know that they care very much about each other. I don't normally ship two characters, but I've read many touching and tender stories about the two, so I decided that it would probably be best to at least mention it in passing. It might become canon sooner or later, who knows? Either way, I like the thought of them having a quiet romance. If you don't like it, just think of it like a very close friendship. If you do, happy to be of service.
> 
> German:  
> Ja: Yes  
> Jawohl: Yessir/ Yes, sir


	6. Matthew 16:23 (Part Two)

The battle was not going well. BLU Spy peeked around the crate and fired off a few rounds before ducking back behind cover.

“You’ve failed!” the intercom shrieked.

Spy swore. He could hear the laughter of the enemy Pyro approaching. _Understatement of the week,_ he thought as he sprinted out from cover, cloaking as he ran. It all started when Medic never came back from Respawn. The Engineer did the best he could with Dispensers, but he couldn’t keep up and eventually their charge stalled and collapsed.

He rounded a corner and heard the scream of a teammate down a hall. He kept running; there was nothing he could do for them. He reached the bridge, the quickest path back to BLU base and safety just as his cloak ran out with a hiss. He ducked reflexively and heard a crack as a sniper bullet zipped just barely overhead.

Spy sprinted across the bridge, focusing on salvation. He was barely a few feet onto solid ground again when he heard running feet tapping on the metal roof of the bridge. He looked back just in time to see the RED Scout land and point a sawn off shotgun into his face.

He never enjoyed Respawn. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he never came back. Would he float in darkness forever? The white light claimed him, and he landed on one of the benches in Resupply with a gasp.

Spy massaged his temple and looked around at all of his teammates in various positions around the room. It appeared that he was the last person to arrive back to base, and that all of them had returned via Respawn. Several of them were crowded around one of the benches speaking animatedly. Curious, Spy got up and approached the men.

They had gathered around Medic, who was lying prone on the bench. He almost appeared asleep, but it was a restless sleep. His fingers twitched and his eyelids moved as if he was caught in a bad dream. There were no marks on him, and his clothes had the immaculate appearance that going through Respawn gave them.

Heavy knelt down by Medic and shook him. “Wake up Doktor! Is not time for sleep!” He wailed.

Spy shouldered past a worried looking Pyro to stand next to Engineer. They watched Heavy try with increasing desperation to wake the man. “Have you looked at Respawn?” Spy asked.

Engineer rubbed at his face wearily. “Firs’ thing Ah tried. Frankly, ah don’t know whut’s wrong with’im. Respawn says he’s fit as a fiddle, an’ that’s jes not right.”

Spy considered this and the possibility that there was something very wrong with the Medic. His expertise was in ending lives, not saving them. He was at a loss as to what was wrong with the man, but if they didn’t try something then the result of today’s battle would become the norm. He could already hear the Administrator scolding them about the total failure of today.

“Mmm, I see,” Spy said. “We may have to try somezhing else.”

Spy moved past Engineer to stand by Medic. He looked pale and exhausted, but otherwise unhurt. His breathing was faint but steady, and no matter what Heavy did he couldn’t rouse the man. Before anyone could stop him, Spy pulled out his gun and shot Medic cleanly in the head. He tried to back away quickly, but Heavy grabbed him and lifted him against the wall by his throat.

“Spy is a spy!” Heavy bellowed as everyone surged forward to separate the two. It took Soldier, Demoman, Pyro, and Engineer to prise Heavy away from Spy. He collapsed to the ground choking and coughing, and Sniper helped him up.

“Not a trick, I ‘ad to try it,” Spy rasped, leaning against the wall. “Look.” He pointed at the bench. Medic’s body had disappeared, and there was no trace of blood.

They waited a minute in silence, punctuated only by the sound of Spy’s ragged breathing. Seconds ticked down, and with a click of Respawn’s machines he reappeared on the bench. Nothing had changed, and he had not woken up.

Heavy looked to Engie in distress. “What is wrong? Why does he sleep?”

Engineer frowned. “I dunno, pardner. I’ll take a deeper look into tha machines, and if ah cain’t make em’ work we’ll go from there. Until then, I need some space ta think.”

The Soldier inspected the prone man. “He must wake up! It is the duty of a soldier to do his duty!” He moved as if to slap Medic, and his wrist was caught by Heavy.

Heavy glared murderously at Soldier. “Do you like having hand?”

Pyro ran over to one of the lockers, pulled a piece of paper down, and came back over. “Mmph! Hudda mmph!” It said, trying to get their attention.

He pointed at the picture, which had a dark man standing on a rainbow color landscape. He pointed at the black figure, and pointed at Medic. “Mmhm Mrrrrdddk!”

Engineer patted him on the shoulder. “I don’ think a pretty picture will help, even if it’s a nice one.” Pyro stamped his foot in frustration as Engineer continued. “Heavy, would ya bring Medic to the infirmary and make him comfortable? There’s no sense in keepin’ him here. Could the rest’a y’all clear out too, if ya don’t mind? I got work ta do.”

“Da, I will go.” He picked up Medic gently and cradled him in his arms like a child. Walking slowly, he left the Resupply.

Demoman unsteadily picked up a crate of scrumpy. “Alrigh’ lassies, let’s goo on,” he slurred, stumbling away.

Everyone started to file out until only Engineer and Spy remained. Spy lit a cigarette thoughtfully, watching them go.

“I will have to inform zhe Administrator,” Spy said.

Engineer gave Spy a sidelong glance. “An’ what do you think she’ll do about it?”

Spy shrugged. “It depends on if we can find out what is wrong with him, and how long it takes for him to recover. I cannot say for sure, but his loss would be crippling to zhe team. She may decide to replace Medic, given time.”

“An’ ya think that she’ll let him go?” Engineer asked.

Spy and Engineer exchanged glances. They both knew what happened to anything or anyone that had outlived their usefulness to the Administrator. Engineer swore under his breath and spat in disgust.

Spy sighed. “I’ll do what I can, Laborer. I don’t want to see him replaced either. We have some time, and I’ll do my best to give us some more. You do your part, and I will do mine.”

With that, he left the room. The Engineer scowled at the retreating figure, picked up his tools, and hurried off to the main Respawn room. Sometimes he didn’t like how pragmatic the spook could be when dealing with his own teammate’s lives, but he knew that the man was just doing his best to give them more time to help Medic. He just hoped like hell that they wouldn’t need it.

\-----------------------------------------

Medic coughed. The air felt hot and dry, and he faintly smelled smoke. His mind was blessedly free of thought, of curiosity, of memories. There was light somewhere, flickering across his eyelids rapidly. He opened his eyes.

He was in a small barn of some sort. It was charred and blackened, and light danced in from outside through the gaping holes. The roof was burned to a few scorched rafters, where smoke curled from a few slowly burning embers winking against a dim sky.

Medic sat up. He was dressed as he had been for the battle, but he was as neat and well kept as if he had walked out of Respawn. Some part of him was screaming urgently and pointing at something important that he was missing, and he vaguely wondered if he should be concerned about something.

He stood and walked to where there appeared to be a set of barn doors, boot heels gently scuffing in the ashy sand. It was oddly quiet except for a crackling, hissing noise outside that he couldn’t quite put a name to. He pushed on the door and it gave way just enough for him to stick his head out. He poked his head out to find that there was a blackened axe jammed in the door handles. Realization gripped him as he looked up at the world outside of the barn, and memory finally hit him like a loaded sandbag.

The world _burned._

Nobody really liked Pyros. They were creepy and freaky under their masks, and no one could really understand their mumbling besides the Engineer. But when they got going, nobody could clear out a place like a Pyro.

He could still remember that day. The battlefield crackled with fire, and flame leapt from building to building like they were soaked in gasoline. The enemy Pyro was unstoppable, and no one could make a strategy that lasted long enough to stop the mumbling lunatic. He had shut himself into the barn to have a moment to plan, a moment to heal and figure out how to stop its rampage. The next thing he heard was the clinking of something against the door. When he went to see what it was, he realized with horror that the Pyro had locked him in.

He backed away from the door and hit the opposite wall, sitting down abruptly. The Pyro’s delighted laugh echoed in his mind. He could almost see the flames rising higher and higher...

A saner part of his mind gripped the rest by its collar and shook it. _Calm down, schweinhund! This isn’t really happening. Think!_

Medic pinched himself, and it hurt enough to tell him that he wasn’t dreaming. He concentrated on shutting out the sounds and sights outside. So, this happened to him in a memory, right? When he died he could still see the fires roaring, roasting him alive. He risked a peek out through one of the gaping holes in the wall. There were still fires out there on the buildings across the road, but they were subdued flickers rather than a roaring blaze.

While he was occasionally impressed with the mechanical creations the Engineer made, Medic sincerely doubted that his colleague had invented time travel. The last time Scout had brought that up during dinner, the man had replied that even if he had a week, he wouldn’t be able to tell him all of the reasons that it wouldn’t work.

Medic knew that he wouldn’t figure anything out by just sitting there. He would just have to go out there and find out where he was and how to get out. Resigned, he got up and wiped the ash off of his coat, leaving ugly streaks.

The doors were still pretty sturdy, so he ended up climbing out through one of the charred gaps in the boards. He inspected the axe. It was barely burnt and seemed sturdy when he pulled it out from the door handles. Medic considered leaving it behind, but finding that neither his Medigun nor his weapons were nearby he decided that a little cutting power wouldn’t hurt.

Outside turned out to be a smoky, ashy world of fire and burned out shells of buildings. He couldn’t see anyone alive, although there were signs that his teammates had died here strewn about in the rubble. Medic picked his way among the debris carefully, looking for a way out. Something crunched underneath his feet, and he looked down to see a pair of his own glasses beneath his boot.

“Nice place ya got here.”

Medic whipped around at the sound, brandishing the axe. Across the lane the figure in the pinstriped suit sat on the porch. It leaned against a charred column and blew a stream of cigarette smoke, grinning at Medic.

Medic tightened his grip on the axe nervously. Of everything he expected to see, this was not it. “Vhat?”

The man gestured around at the surroundings. “What? You don’t recognize your own head?” He took a deep breath and sighed contentedly. “I like your memory, it reminds me of home.”

Medic struggled to fit that comment into the available rational space in his mind. He had never heard of any recorded instances of this. Perhaps Exploding Head Syndrome would fit? He dismissed that. He didn’t think he was sleeping, and he hadn’t heard anything besides the crackling fire. Had anyone ever really gone inside their own mind? He felt that he deserved some answers.

“Vhat are you?” he asked. “Vhat do you mean, zis being in my own head?”

The figure chuckled, and a cold prickle ran down Medic’s spine as he recognized it. Another memory resurfaced. The battle… the wall… waiting to die… and waking up here.

“I’ve been called many things over the years. The adversary, the serpent, the son of the morning, the tempter, now that’s a funny one,” he grinned. “But since we’re pals, I’ll let ya call me Lucifer if ya want.”

Medic’s mind raced, although to consider that he was in his mind and his mind was racing was almost too convoluted to follow. He thought back to his early childhood and stiff sunday clothes. Church was important in those times, and his mother made sure that he went. It had been ages since he thought about religion. A man of science didn’t need it. No amount of praying would return a still beating heart to the body, or a severed hand to a wrist.

He put the pieces together. He was in a place that eerily resembled a memory, after a traumatic head injury which should have sent him back to Respawn. It didn’t feel like a dream either. And here was someone that claimed to be the Devil, and that they were both inside of his mind. Was it some sort of delusion he created? He saw this… Lucifer…  in the mirage when he hit his head. He looked very solid here, dressed in a black suit and tie and savoring a cigarette like he owned the place. If the Devil really existed and was inside his mind, he felt that he should say something about it.

“Get behind me, vhatever you are,” Medic said quietly.

The Devil put up his hands in mock terror. “Oooh, oh no, what am I going to do? He knows a Bible verse,” he laughed.

He swung his legs off of the porch, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I just want to have a chat with ya. A nice little civil discussion, and if we can work something out we’ll both be on our way. Sound good?”

Medic gave up. “Fine. Let’s play a little game of make believe like _kinder_ , shall ve? I’ll be Medic und you’ll be zhe Devil und ve’ll have fun games in vone of my vorst nightmares! Inside my head, no less!” he snapped.

“That’s the spirit!” The Devil chuckled. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while, and I figured that I’d just get my foot in the door while I could. Maybe while I’m at it, everything. I love it here!” He gestured around him happily.

The Devil sobered and looked back to Medic. “You’re pretty sharp, and you’re not afraid to do what needs to be done. Morals? Who needs them? You certainly don’t. Ya see what you want, and whatever you need to do to get it doesn’t bother ya. I’ve seen ya in battle. Remember the _shadenfreude_? The glee ya get from carving up people still alive? I like that in a man. Ya know, I think that we’d work well together.”

Medic took a step backwards uneasily. He didn’t like what the Devil was insinuating. He also knew what happened to people who made deals with the Devil. “You alvays lie, don’t you.”

The Devil shrugged. “Except when the truth can hurt more. Here’s a little more truth for ya.” He got up and walked towards Medic. “We’re here because of me. When you get out of here, it’ll be because of me. We’re gonna be here until we work something out.”

As Medic realized what the Devil was saying, he felt a lead weight drop in his stomach. He swung the axe at the Devil in desperation, in panic. It had to be a trick; there had to be a way. It bounced off harmlessly, and the Devil sighed.

You want to do this the hard way? Fine by me.” he made a gesture and the axe was on fire. Medic yelled and dropped it, slapping out the flames on his gloves. “Ya like this place? Get used to it. We’ll be here a while.”

Medic turned on heel and ran. There had to be another way out. There had to be. He couldn’t be trapped here. He ran down the lane of burning buildings, but there seemed to be no end to them. He would recognize places over and over, a half burned sign, a pile of bricks, the crushed glasses.

He leaned against a wall, gasping for breath. He looked over across the street, and in the row of buildings was the barn he had emerged from. He felt weak at the knees.

He was back where he started.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RED or BLU. Does it really matter? Most of the time, I’d like to think that it doesn’t. One side attacks, one side defends, and sometimes you win or lose. There’s no real difference there. They look and act the same in the game, so what’s to say that if I write for a character that it can’t be RED or BLU? Both are believable.  
> I’d originally started writing this with BLU Medic, because of a few things. I wanted the place where he goes to be from Meet the Pyro, and that happens to BLU Medic and can be construed as memory. Does he go anywhere, or is he in his own mind? Everyone loves the crazy kooky RED Medic, but the art that inspired this fic presented BLU Medic battling against the Devil, not RED. Not much is written about the BLU Medic, but a story I loved (Game Mechanics: Autobalance by Hobbithearted) was told mostly from the viewpoint of RED Spy and BLU Medic.  
> And there’s the rub. I loved writing for RED Spy. He had a great personality and I wanted to write with him more. I realized that I was characterizing the BLU Spy like RED. Would it work? Would everyone simply not notice? I would. I’ve been characterizing my characters the same way that I characterized RED in the past. Is it wrong for me to simply assume that they are like twins? Probably. All we really know is stuff about RED, the Director never got to talk to BLU.  
> Simply changing everything to RED wouldn’t solve anything either, because then I’d lose the nightmare Medic goes to his mind, and it would bug the crap out of me. I like things to be canon and nice and neat and all fit together without major continuity issues. I can’t just “make it fit"; it bugs me. The canon story creators seem to go for the approach that the two sides are similar, just with a few different experiences, so I'll stick with that.  
> An amazing solution to this problem can be seen in the fic You Need To Get A Head, by SanctusCedidit. It's the kind of story that's so well written that by the end you kinda just sit there in shock as the masterpiece that you just experienced. If you only ever read one story I recommend, read that one. It can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1651298/chapters/3501602 
> 
> The fire filled place that Medic goes to is based off of the town in Meet the Pyro, where he gets burned alive. Here's some art! http://aumikre.deviantart.com/art/More-Meet-the-Freakin-Pyro-311969460  
> http://inklou.deviantart.com/art/Meet-the-real-Fire-Lord-311146980
> 
> German:  
> schweinhund: pig dog  
> kinder: children  
> Shadenfreude: the malicious joy gotten from someone else's pain


	7. No Way Out

“I’ll do my best Spy, but it’s not looking too good. You know how she is,” came Miss Pauling’s voice from the end of the receiver.

Spy sighed. “Oui, Miss Pauling, I understand. We haven’t figured out what’s wrong yet, but we are working on getting someone to see him.”

“Spy, is this going to make more paperwork for me? We are under a ceasefire.”

Spy rolled his cigarette between his fingers. “I don’t intend on anyone finding out, so no. It won’t impact any townsfolk either if I can help it.”

There was a sigh of relief from the phone. “Thank you. I really don’t want to have to deal with that again.”

“How long can you give us?” Spy asked.

There was a pause on the other end. “Well you have the rest of the weekend, and if we’re lucky I might be able to wiggle in another day. Unless there’s some catastrophic failure of power across the entire region or a freak dust storm though, it’s not likely. Sorry.”

“And if Medic can’t recover by then?”

He heard a rustling of papers. “If you can pull a victory in the next battle, there’s a chance that I can buy you a few extra days. If it gets really bad I’ll get in touch with your Engineer and see if I can work out a reboot using a backup Respawn copy, but that’s super risky. Other than that, she’ll be looking for a replacement.”

“Would Medic survive zhat?” Spy snapped.

“Don’t get sharp on me! I don’t make the rules, I just have to pass them on,” Miss Pauling replied, her voice rising.

Spy sighed and closed his eyes, counting to three before he spoke again. “And I just want to help my teammate. I’m sorry, Miss Pauling. Thank you for trying.”

“It’s not over yet, Spy. You do what you can, and I’ll do the same,” she said.

“Mmm, indeed. Until next time.”

He hung up the payphone and walked back to where Sniper’s van was parked. He tapped on the window, and Sniper rolled it down.

“We have a few days at most. Did you pick out a perch zhat will let you see into zhe RED base’s Med bay?

“Yep. I can line up a shot in thirty minutes,” Sniper replied.

“Good. I’ll wait until you’re in position before I head in. Expect me an hour before dawn,” Spy said.

Sniper smiled. “Good luck, bloody wanker.”

Spy nodded cordially back to him. “Au revoir, repulsive bushman.”

As Sniper started his van with a sputter and cough Spy headed back to their base. If all went well, they would get Medic the help he needed.

\------------------------------------------------------

 

Up this high, the heat wasn’t as bad.

The joist beam that Medic stood on wobbled a little, and he grasped at the supporting post next to it. He shut his eyes and waited until the world stopped spinning.

This was almost as bad as rocket-jumping with Soldier. He never got used to that swooping sensation in his stomach, or the feeling of absolute terror as the ground rushed up to meet you. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t afraid of heights. _It’s the sudden, sharp impacts that always get you,_ his mind insidiously replied.

Telling himself to shut up, he took a deep breath and look up at the next part of his ascent. A rafter, then another one, then another. He tested the ladder next to the tower to see if it was sturdy. It was, and Medic carefully climbed up the juddering structure until he reached the top of the tower. He positioned himself on the rafters and forced himself to look _out_ , not _down_.

There was always a way, wasn’t there? If he couldn’t get out by the main road, he’d look for another way. The rubble in between the buildings proved impossible to scale, but perhaps there might be something out there.

He thought back to the Devil’s- had he really accepted the figure’s words as truth already?- words about him doing whatever needs to be done, and he grimaced uneasily. He didn’t even know if it was lying, if it was just trying to trick him. He decided that until he knew for sure he would remain skeptical, but play along. It called itself the Devil? Fine. He’d just keep going and try to get out of this nightmare.

He peered through the smoke, but all he saw off in the distance was darkness. Dispirited, he rubbed at his face and left black streaks. He felt like a fool, climbing up here for nothing. He couldn’t even see the windmill off in the distance…

Just then, he heard a faint creaking in the distance. He looked up and there it was, barely visible in the gloom, but it was there. Elated, he forced aside his lingering thoughts of doubt and tried to think about what the battlefield had really looked like. He looked off into another direction, where there was nothing but smoky darkness. He closed his eyes and remembered that yes, there was a tree over there. He opened his eyes, and while it was half scorched, it was there.  

The creaking in the background died. Medic looked back to where the windmill had been, and it had disappeared into the gloom again. He forced himself to picture it in his mind, and the smoke shifted to reveal it again.

“Nice trick.”

Medic gripped the roof with one hand and his chest in the other. “Mein Gott! Don’t do zat!” he snapped at the figure sitting a few feet away.

The Devil lit a cigarette unconcernedly. “Whoops. My bad. See anything good?”

Medic glared at the demon. “Zat is none of your business.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, I’m just trying to help ya. That won’t work, ya know.” He waved his cigarette out into the gloom.

“Vhy should I believe you?” Medic asked.

The Devil grinned. “Because I haven’t lied to you yet. Well, maybe I said a teensy little one. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Medic ignored him and concentrated on finding the tree again. Wasn’t there a road by it? He tried to picture it.

“See, the issue is that you can make things show up as you remember them, but only the areas you can see without effort are gonna stay.” Medic snorted in exasperation as his concentration was interrupted _again._ “If you go outside of here, you have to constantly be able to remember where you’re going, or you’ll get snapped back.” He snapped his fingers. “When you go out far enough, who knows where you’ll get stuck next?”

Medic brushed a little ash off of his knee. “Anyvhere must be better zan here.”

“Well it’ll have me, so at least you won’t be alone,” the Devil shrugged.

Medic groaned. “Vhy von’t you just leave me be?” He got up carefully and started to descend. He half expected the demon to follow him, but it made no move to get up.

He had a sudden idea. If he got into here by a sudden impact, could he get out by the same means? He paused by the tower’s edge. It looked like a long way down. He’d died from lesser falls. Mustering up his courage, he threw himself off.

On the way down his leg caught on a beam and spun him, slamming him into the wall below before tumbling him on the roof and sending him to the ground. Agony welled up in his body as he hit a pile of bricks with a crack.

He lay motionless on his side and he heard a low chuckle. Wracked with pain, he opened one eye by a sliver. The Devil was standing over him, grinning.

The Devil crouched down to look him in the eye. “I’ll tell ya, ya got spunk. I like that.”

Medic closed his eyes, tears trickling down his cheeks. Everything went dark and quiet, and after a while he woke up and felt no pain. He cautiously opened his eyes, and he was in the barn again.

If anyone had been there to listen for something against the crackling of the flames, the listener might have been able to hear choked sobbing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think that the soundtrack for Medic's half of this chapter is This Animal I Have Become, by Three Day's Grace. It fits really nicely.
> 
> I like to think of Sniper and Spy being friends, but the kind of friend where they're assholes to each other until the chips are down.
> 
> If anyone is wondering, no the Devil isn't supposed to look or act like someone I know of. I just made up a personality based on my own mental image of him. 
> 
> I use Miss Pauling instead of the Administrator because she is a little more likely to be sympathetic the men. Plus, I love that woman. For this chapter's link, I recommend reading The Morbid, Macabre, and Myriad Adventures of Miss Edith Amelia Pauling. They are simply wonderful. http://archiveofourown.org/series/170291
> 
> Is it mean that I enjoy breaking Medic? Probably. Do I regret it? Absolutely not! >:D
> 
> French:  
> Oui: Yes


	8. A Second Opinion

Spy crept along the sewers, holding his breath. He lamented the loss of a good suit; this one would have to be burned later. If it got Medic the help he needed, then it would be worth it. He waded carefully towards enemy territory, taking care to be quiet. The RED team had won and would have been undoubtedly celebrating tonight until they were too drunk to stand, but he had found throughout the years that caution was rarely misplaced.

He heard the faint standby beeping of a Sentry ahead. As he approached the sewer exit he cloaked, passing the sentry by the stairs. He didn’t want to destroy it if he didn’t have to; it might raise an alarm. The success of this plan depended on stealth.

He tiptoed up the stairs as quickly as he could, and he had just reached the top when he heard a faint snore. He ducked behind a crate and deactivated his cloaking watch out of sight of the sentry. He peeked around and spotted the RED Engineer slumped against a Dispenser in the corner, sleeping with a bottle in hand. Smiling faintly, he checked the recharge on his cloak. Satisfied, he cloaked and continued onwards.

He moved slowly but methodically through the base, ducking into doorways or behind boxes to recharge his concealing cloak as he went. Like he suspected, he encountered almost all of the classes in various states of drunken sleep, and his soft shoes left no trace of his passage.

Spy approached the Med bay with caution. He suspected that both Medics were a little alike in their own way, and his prediction was proven correct by the fact that the light in the surgery was still on. He opened the door carefully, noting the untouched beer bottle on the counter next to it. It prickled Spy’s curiosity how similar the two Medics were to each other, and he vowed that someday he would find out why.

The man sat in front of a work table by the window, completely focused on the Medigun he was dismantling. Spy uncloaked when he was right behind the Medic, and the sound made the man start to turn around in panic.

“BLU Sp-!” he tried to shriek before Spy clapped a hand over his mouth. The man froze as he felt the tip of Spy’s balisong against his neck.

“We are going to be very quiet and calm,” Spy said quietly. “Zhis is zhe carotid artery, correct? You wouldn’t even have time to scream. I am going to remove my hand now. Think carefully.”

The RED Medic stayed still and looked straight ahead. “Ve haff a ceasefire, you know,” he murmured.

“I am aware,” Spy replied. “I don’t plan on breaking it either, and if you cooperate you will not be harmed.”

“Vhat does zis involve?” The enemy Medic asked.

Well, to start with we’re going to take a little walk. Before you wonder if you can fight me off, I suggest that you look at your right shoulder.”

The man tilted his head very slowly to look at his shoulder, where a laser beam blinked. Somewhere out there, Sniper was aiming through the window. He looked forward again.

“I see.”

“It wouldn’t be an immediately lethal shot, but it would be excruciating and give me enough time to leave. All I need is your cooperation,” Spy said.

The enemy Medic sighed faintly, keeping still. “I vant it to be known zat I am doing zis against my vill.”

Spy smiled. “Duly noted.”

“Vhat do you need me to do?” he asked.

“First you are going to write a note that says that you are not to be disturbed for any reason and show it to me. Remember to move slowly,” Spy replied.

He removed his butterfly knife, stepped back, and pulled out his gun, cocking it. The Medic moved very slowly, taking out a piece of paper. _‘Do not disturb for any reason. Trespassers will be sedated.’_ he wrote, sliding it to the side for Spy to inspect.

Spy snorted quietly in amusement. “Zhat will work. Now we are going to go on a little walk. Stand up, slowly.”

The man stood up slowly and turned to the door. Spy gestured, and he opened the door. As they walked out Spy attached the note to the door and pointed to where he wanted the man to go. He kept the gun pointed steadily at the RED medic and watched the little blue bead of light follow them through the windows. They moved slowly towards the sewers and as they approached the Sentry, Spy activated his cloak. The little shooter beeped quizzically at the Medic, and he heard a stirring.

“Wazzat? Isat’ you, Doc?” A voice slurred.

The two froze. Spy could feel the clock ticking down in his watch and it gave a warning vibrate. Thirty seconds. He nudged the man with his gun.

“Ja, it is just me. I am just goink for a valk. I vill be back soon,” the man nervously replied.

The RED Engineer muttered something and started to snore again. The Sentry chirped. Spy nudged the Medic and they descended the stairs.

“Into zhere? Disgusting,” he muttered in protest.

Spy pushed him into the sewer and hissed, “No time. Move.”

The man stumbled and almost fell, but he regained his balance and walked in. Spy slipped in just as his cloak failed. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Send zhe dry cleaning bill to me, if you wish. I could probably get you a frequent user discount,” Spy said.

The RED Medic snorted. “I’m sure.”

They approached the other side of the sewers, and Spy whistled down the tunnel. The two walked up to the base entrance and were greeted by Engineer and Pyro.

Pyro waved merrily and the RED Medic froze. Spy could see that it might be an issue if the RED Medic was anywhere near as terrified of Pyros as their Medic.

“Pyro, please don’t startle zhe man. I don’t want him making any rash moves,” Spy called out to him.

Engineer stood up and adjusted his shotgun. “It’s alright Spah, we had a talk ‘fore ya got here.” He nodded to the enemy Medic courteously. “Don’t you worry about us, son, we’re just gonna give ya a little escort. We wouldn’t want anythin’ to happen to ya.”

\-----------------------------------------------

 

The RED Medic swallowed hard and nodded. He still had no idea what was going on, but he was currently not being shot at or burned alive. He wanted that state of affairs to continue.

The spook nodded. “Mmm, it would be unfortunate if you were harmed. I assume zhat you ‘ave already become familiar with our base during battles, but this will help put my colleagues at ease. Hold still.”

The Spy pulled out a handkerchief, and he stood still as it was tied around his eyes.

“There. Ready, everyone? Let’s go.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder guiding him forward. Just as he thought about sprinting for the sewers he felt a blade being pressed against his back. He stiffened in fear. His shoulder was gently nudged forward, and he decided that he would just have to play along for now.

It felt like they were walking for ages. They turned into a corridor, then another, and walked yet further. If they were going to torture or kill him, they were certainly taking their sweet time. He wondered if they were just trying to soften him first.

Or, and this was starting to become a valid theory, they actually needed his help. The BLUs had lost pretty badly, and he remembered wondering during the battle where their Medic was. Maybe something was wrong.

The firm pressure on his shoulder tightened, and he stopped. The blade moved from between his shoulder blades, and he breathed a sigh of relief while the blindfold was removed. He stood in front of a door, which was guarded by the surly BLU Soldier.

The masked man waved off the Pyro and Engineer. “You two wait outside with Soldier. I don’t want it to be too crowded in zhere.”

He knocked on the door, a complicated set of taps, and the door was opened by the BLU Heavy. His expression looked like it had been chipped from granite, and he stood to the side to let them enter.

“Nazi scum,” the Soldier hissed under his breath, just loudly enough for him to hear. He tried to hold his back straight and continue inside, chin held high. He wouldn’t let them get to him.

Inside turned out to be a small room lit by a bright ceiling light. There were a few chairs set against the wall by a small table which held a few wilting dandelions in a mug settled among colorful cards. Set against the other wall was a medical gurney with someone on top of it. He looked closer and saw that the BLU Medic lay on the padding, a blanket drawn across him.

“I want you to examine him,” the Spy said quietly. “We attempted to put him through Respawn before it was shut down for zhe weekend, but there was no change. Do what you can.”

The Heavy sat down on one of the chairs and crossed his arms, glaring at him. He looked back to the BLU Spy, who had pulled out his gun.

The masked man gestured with his other hand, keeping the firearm steady. “Go on. _S'il vous plaît_.”

He approached slowly, curiosity overcoming trepidation. He felt a thrill of excitement; he had never had an opportunity to work on his opponent, and this could be his only chance. The man appeared to be sleeping; yet that was clearly not the case. There was a low table with some tools next to him, and he picked up a flashlight. He shined it into the man’s retina. There was no response, even though the eyes were demonstrating rapid eye movement. The skin felt very warm to the touch, but not enough for him to suspect a fever. He gently lifted the man’s hand and looked over at the Spy, who was watching him intently.

“I need to prick his finger, to see if he vill react,” he said

The Spy pocketed his gun, approached, and drew out his balisong. The man carefully used it to nick Medic’s finger. A drop of blood appeared, but there was no reaction. The Spy withdrew back to the wall again, drawing out a handkerchief to clean the blade. He bandaged the finger, and as he set the hand down carefully down the man twitched. The man moved as if he was struggling to fight, like he was trapped in his own body. Surprised, he turned to the other men.

“Vhat happened ze last time he vas seen… not like zis?” he asked.

The Heavy looked at him menacingly. “I last saw him before grenades. Your baby team will pay for that.”

There was an awkward pause, and then the Spy cleared his throat. “Some of your Demoman’s grenades blasted him against a wall. After zhat, I didn’t see him.”

The RED Medic adjusted his spectacles. “Ah. I see. Vell, he appears to be in a coma of some sort.”

“A coma?” The BLU Spy asked.

He shrugged. “He isn’t responding to anyzhing, ja? He isn’t sleeping, zat’s for sure.”

He turned back to the BLU Medic and started to examine the rest of him. For some odd reason, he seemed to have faint scorch marks on his hands. He was otherwise unhurt and his pulse and breathing seemed normal.

“Is zhere anything you can do for him?” The enemy Spy asked.

“Vell his breathing seems alright, so he von’t need a respirator. Do you know vhat an IV looks like? If he hasn’t been eating, he vill need zat,” he replied.

The BLU Heavy stood up. “I will get it,” he rumbled. He looked at the Spy. “Watch him,” he stated. At BLU Spy’s nod he opened the door and left, shutting it behind him.

As soon as the Heavy’s footsteps had faded away, the enemy Spy turned to him. “Do you think zhat he will recover?” he asked quietly.

He paused for a moment. Should he tell him what he wanted to hear? This would be the perfect moment to lie. He was tempted, but he could hear the hope in the man’s voice. It was shocking to hear such concern in a voice he normally associated with a painful death. “Comas are difficult,” he replied despite his better interests. “Zey can last for days... or years. To be honest, I don’t know.”

The Spy’s expression darkened and he sighed. “I was afraid zhat you might say zhat. Is zhere anything we can do?”

He tapped his chin. “Vell, you could try talking to him. Move him around a little. Perhaps music vould help? Ozzer zan zat, I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

He felt himself wishing that if he were injured, that his own Spy would be this disturbed. Perhaps he would be, but he didn’t know for sure. The door opened and the Heavy reappeared with an IV setup.

He took it from the man and began to prepare the IV bag. “Danke. He shouldn’t need anything beyond zis for a while. Do you know how to replace it?” he asked, inserting it into the BLU Medic’s arm.

The giant man nodded. “Da. I help my Medic.”

He felt uncomfortable and couldn’t make eye contact. “Vell, gut. Somebody should.” He looked back to the Spy. “Is zere anyzhing else you need?”

The masked man fished out a blindfold from his suit pocket. “I don’t believe so. Thank you for making zhis painless.”

The walk back was much shorter this time, with much fewer turns. He was led through the base to the sewer, and when his blindfold was removed he was standing just in front of the entrance to his own base.

He was just about to take a step forward when he felt a sharp pain in his neck, and the world started to spin. He looked back at the Spy, who was holding a small syringe. The masked man cloaked and caught him as he fell, pulling him the rest of the way to the RED base.

“Apologies, but I like to hedge my bets,” the BLU Spy murmured in his ear. “This is just a little toxin courtesy of zhe BLU Sniper. It won’t kill you, but it will make you feel sick for a few days even with Respawn. Remember to drink plenty of fluids. Until next time, mon ennemi.”

He made a rude gesture as the Spy left him by the stairs, turning to the side to retch. It was almost funny. He should have known better than to trust a Spy.

\-------------------------------------

Time moved differently here.

Medic didn’t know how long he had been in the barn. He didn’t feel hunger or exhaustion, and there was no sun to keep track of the hours. The fire acted unnaturally as well, refusing to do anything more than blacken and char.

He mulled over the demon’s words in his head over and over, trying to make sense, trying to find truth.

Medic thought back to the hundreds of battles he had fought in an endless war. It felt perfectly natural to him to be fascinated by the human body and the endless ways it could work or fail. The possibilities were endless! It was his life’s goal to further science and the understanding of the limits of the human body, and the battles were the perfect way to test his theories.

But could his love of science and experimentation have drawn the Devil’s attention to him? As a child he had listened to the priest drone about how not placing your faith entirely in God was a sin. He still believed that the man was wrong, but perhaps in his quest for knowledge he had missed something. He delighted in his work, and if a few enemies died painfully along the way, then all the better.

Was that it? Did he delight too much in the death of his enemies? He considered that possibility. It was hard to not feel triumphant any time he stopped one of the countless attacks against his life, or to feel a little vindictive after finally getting revenge on someone who had killed him for the umpteenth time. When everyone is out for your head, being nice gets you nothing but an early death.

Outside the fire popped and hissed, drawing him out of his thoughts. It almost seemed pointless to go outside now that he knew that nothing was out there. He had already tried striking out for the tree in the distance. Once there, he couldn’t remember what came after, and the world went grey. The next moment he was standing in the barn, back where he started. It was maddening.

Suddenly, he thought of something. The Devil had mentioned that anything he thought of that couldn’t exist in the burnt up buildings would fade away. He’d been trying to imagine large things outside of view. But what about something small, something that could fit inside? He dismissed the thought of summoning Archimedes. The little bird couldn’t live in this hell.

Inspiration struck, and in the gloom he smiled as he knew what to focus on. He imagined the way it fit into his hands, its grace and energy, the way it cried its solitary song into the night. He opened his eyes again and in front of him lay his violin case, and inside lay the violin.

He reached out to touch it in disbelief, half expecting his hand to pass through. It felt real and solid to his fingertips, and he cradled it in joy. It was the first normal thing he had seen here, and it looked just as it did when he left it. His heart longed to hear it play, to feel like he had some kind of control over his life again.

Medic brought the violin up and sketched out a few notes. They rang sweet and true, bringing a smile to Medic’s face. Elated, he began to play.

The pace started slow and haunting, crooning the lullaby of the captive. He moved his bow back and forth, fingers sliding along the neck. The violin played the song of the desperate, the notes crying out his anguish and loneliness. It was the song of the caged, and it became Medic’s cry for freedom. His pace slowly picked up and he shifted with the tempo, his posture rigid and set. The tone changed to one of anger, and the strings shrieked. He poured his heart and soul into the song, railing against the games of the Devil, the cruelty of a pointless war, his ruined childhood. His anger at the loss of his teacher became channeled into the song and blended with the melodies of rage. The notes of fury brightened and became more livelier, jumping into the march of war. His heart beat in time with the tune of determination, the desire to find a way out.

 

_And on the other side, Pyro held his hand and felt the change in pulse. The firebug put its hand on Medic’s shoulder, and even through the gloves he could feel a resonance in the bone. He jumped in shock and ran out of the room._

His eyes were closed, but had he opened them he might have noticed a faint spark of light following the bow along its path across the strings. The blue flash left a little comet tail that hung in the air for a few seconds before joining the pinprick of light on its new path. It bounced after a particularly violent stroke and briefly became an almost imperceptible outline of a man in a cap playing by Medic’s side. The image flickered and winked out.

Medic’s fingers moved in a frenzy up and down the neck of the instrument, turning his determination and outrage into a climax of resolution. He would get out of here. He would take his life back. The music wound down, slowing again to a lighter pace. Now it was not the tormented wail of the prisoner; this was low song of a captive searching for a key.

He let the music fade away and wiped at the tears that carved a path in the grime on his face. It wasn’t much, but it was a proof of concept, something solid that he could hold onto. With this, he gained knowledge.

With this, he could fight for his freedom.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I was inspired by a piece of art I found on Deviantart called Song of the Caged Bird by leilei, in which Medic plays a violin in a fashion similar to Lindsey Stirling in her video called Song of the Caged Bird. You can find that on youtube. Unfortunately I can't find it anymore beyond a google search, so perhaps the artist has moved on.  
> http://pre02.deviantart.net/29c1/th/pre/i/2013/283/f/0/song_of_the_caged_bird_by_lielei-d6pzlxf.png
> 
> The mention of Spy wondering about the similarities of the Medics is a reference once again to You Need To Get A Head. SanctusCecidit does a great deconstruction of that, and it's truly worth reading.
> 
> French:  
> S'il vous plaît: Please  
> Mon ennemi: my enemy


	9. A Deal With The Devil

The men sat huddled around a Dispenser in the Engineer’s workshop, each nursing their own wounds. None had left the field without injuries, but there was a feeling of pride in the air, of satisfaction. They had gone into battle without their Medic and triumphed. With their blood, they had bought their teammate more time.

It might have helped that the RED Medic seemed to be having a really tough time. By the end of the battle all he could do was throw up, and it was only a matter of time before they were defeated. You could almost feel bad for the guy, if it hadn’t meant that they could pull a victory.

Faint footsteps echoed in the hallway, drawing nearer. Engineer tipped his helmet back on his head and looked up. Spy walking into the room gingerly, leaning against the Dispenser with a sigh.

“Any news?” Engineer asked.

Spy shifted his shoulder in his makeshift sling and winced. “I have been in touch with Miss Pauling. Due to both Medics being incapacitated, we have been given anozher day.”

Scout punched the air and Sniper smiled tiredly. Heavy frowned and said, “Only one?”

Spy shrugged with his uninjured arm. “It is better zhan nozhing. She also approved zhe use of zhe backup save.”

This caused a stir among the men. The possibility of bringing Medic back gave them hope. Few of them were actually really close to the Medic; he was crazy, sadistic, egotistical, and he could be pretty harsh. But when you needed someone to patch you up, he was there, and if he wasn’t then he had a good reason for it. Most importantly, he was theirs, and they lived and died as one. In this, they wouldn’t leave a man behind.

The Engineer got up and stretched. “Alright, I’ll get it all set up. Any of y’all that wanna come with me to Respawn, feel free.”

He was elbow deep in circuitry by the time that someone showed up. It was Scout, surprisingly.

“Mumbles was tryin’ ta put some kinda salt thingy around Medic, so everyone got a lil’ busy,” Scout said.

The Engineer bumped his head on a girder inside. “What did I tell you about callin’ Pyro names, boy?”

Scout gave an exasperated sigh. “They’re a person jus’ like us, so give them the decency of one, blah blah blah,” he droned.

“Well, at least make yerself useful,” Engineer grumbled. “See that card on the table? Give it here.”

He felt the gencode card being pushed into the panel opening, and he pulled it in, replacing the one already there and putting it in his pocket. He crawled back out, made sure that everything was attached properly, and charged the couplers. Everything looked right.

Engineer turned to Scout. “Why don’cha run along and tell Spah that everythin’s set ta go? Use that speed ya always brag about.”

Scout saluted. “Oh yeah, ya bettuh believe that I’m the fastest. Watch me!”

He sprinted off down the hall, and the Engineer chuckled. A minute later, Pyro skulked in like a wet dog, if a wet dog could wear a fire suit and mask.

Engineer crossed his arms.“Now, whut’s this ah hear about you takin’ all of our salt and puttin’ it ‘round Medic? It’s not right.”

Pyro looked embarrassed and shuffled its feet. It reached into a pocket and pulled out a drawing, showing it to Engineer. It showed a picture of a dark figure putting hands on what he assumed were Medic’s shoulders.

“Mrrrdkkkssss trrppppdd. Nnnnnshhhhd,” Pyro mumbled

“What do you mean, he’s trapped inside?” Engineer asked. He knew that Pyro saw the world very differently than everyone else, but this was a little bit of a stretch.

Pyro’s response was interrupted by the sound of a distant gunshot. The machines inside the panel started to whir and click softly. Heavy burst into the room with thunderous footfalls, skidding to a halt next to the bench.

There was a faint humming which built up to a louder click. Medic appeared on the Respawn bench slumped with his head hung low, jerked, and fell still. Heavy gently supported the man and kissed his forehead tenderly. Engineer pretended he didn’t see that; it wasn’t right, but it wasn’t his business.

“Doktor, are you there?” Heavy asked.

There was silence, and a few of Medic’s fingers twitched. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Heavy hugged the man and picked him up.

“We will wait,” he said shortly, before carrying Medic out of the room. Pyro and the Engineer exchanged glances.

Engineer sighed. “Well, at least we have another day.”

Beyond that, he didn’t know what they were going to do. They were running out of options.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

Heavy settled Medic back onto the gurney and carefully bundled him in the blanket. He pulled a chair over and sat next to the bed, and wrapped a giant hand around Medic’s.

When everyone else saw him, they saw a great big brute, dumb muscle, a man big in braun but small in brains. The Doktor was different. Despite their many differences, they cared about each other deeply. When Heavy struggled for the right words in this infernal language, the Doktor was there to help. When the Doktor needed help on the battlefield, he would be there. They played chess together, they discussed literature and science together. When Heavy felt weak, Medic made him feel strong.

They loved each other. It was more than any battle-forged bond, and they treated it as such. The others tried to ignore it, and as long as they didn’t say anything or hurt his Doktor, he was content to leave it at that.

He looked at his Medic, broken in a way that he didn’t know how to fix, and he didn’t feel strong anymore.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Medic climbed out of the hole in the wall, clutching his violin case close to his chest. He was gong to escape. He didn’t know how yet, but he was going to get out of here. If he could summon a violin, he wanted to see what else he could do. He walked along the empty boulevard of burnt buildings, listening for any sound of the Devil. He hadn’t seen him in a while, and he was beginning to wonder what mischief the demon was up to.

He smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke, looked to the side, and jumped. As if on cue, the Devil walked by his side.

“Vhat did I say about doink zat?!” he yelled.

The Devil laughed. “Ya know it’s funny, lighten up,” he said, snapping and pointing jauntily. A spark leapt from the demon’s fingers to Medic’s shoulder, burning a spot into his violin case. He yelped and brushed it out.

Just as Medic was about to cast caution and experience to the winds and throttle the Devil with his bare hands, the Devil said “I’m impressed, you almost had it.”

Medic halted, confused. “Vhat?”

“Your pals? They almost got me out of your head. But I’ve been in here for a while. I’m not going anywhere without a fight,” he replied.

This piqued Medic’s curiosity. “A fight?”

The Devil grinned. “Yep. Remember that little lie I told you? Well, if you can beat me in a duel, I’ll take off and even throw in a good night’s sleep for ya. You’ll be back to fighting the good fight in no time, demon free.”

Medic tightened his grip on the case, struggling to squash the tiny flicker of hope he felt. “And if I lose?”

The Devil chuckled, and Medic’s hair stood on end. “Well, that’s where things get interesting. If I win, you still wake up. But I get to hang around. I’ll be like the little voice in your ear, every step of the way.”

He wanted to say no. He should say no. But... he was weary of this place. He missed his team and all of the annoying things they did, even Scout. He hadn’t found a way out yet, and he was beginning to wonder if there was another way out. The ability to summon items to this place from his memories wasn’t going to help him get out of said memories.

“Hey, tell ya what, I’ll make it easy for ya. Ya see that violin you’re holding? You play a mean tune. I’ll challenge ya to a duel with that, and we’ll see who’s the better player. Sound good?” The demon held out a hand.

He wanted to say no, say that he wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t fight a battle like that, one that he’d certainly lose.

_“You don’t have to lose, mein freund. I will be right there with you.”_

Medic tried not to react. For a moment, it was almost as if he could hear Herr Wiezel’s voice whispering in his ear. The Devil appeared not to have heard. He could almost feel a ghostly hand on his shoulder, imagine the man’s smile. He wondered if he could remember Herr Wiezel’s lessons.

Medic made a judgement call. If he could believe in himself and play like Herr Wiezel taught him to play, it was worth a shot if it was his only way to get out of here. Even if it was a million in one chance, it might just work.

He took the Devil’s hand and shook it. “Ja. I agree.”

The Devil grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Respawn being almost like a punchcard system. It records the latest copy of you before you go into battle, and that 'gencode' is like a backup save of you. Medic didn't come out of the coma because he's being held in one by the Devil. The Respawn system registers him as being healthy and perfectly fine, and that's the copy it's accepted of him. It doesn't realize that Medic is being held in his own mind, because everything else seems quite normal.
> 
> Anyone who gets mad at Engineer for his stance about Heavy and Medic should remember that he's from Texas, which has traditionally been against something like that. It's also the 60s, and people from that time period were not nearly as open minded as people are today.


	10. For Your Very Soul

The Devil released his hand and walked a little ways down the road. A spire of flame shot up from the ground, and he reached into the inferno and drew out a violin case. Its wood was a dark blood red, and the grain almost looked like screaming faces.

“I’ll go first,” the Devil hissed, opening the catches on his case. The violin inside gleamed as if it was made out of pure Australium. When he rosined the bow, it wailed like a thousand damned souls burning in anguish accompanied by the laughter of the mad; of demons laughing in Hell. Medic clapped his hands over his ears as the fires suddenly flared up on the buildings, leaving them in the center of a firestorm. He couldn’t block out the sound of the Devil’s laughter.

The Devil put the violin to his chin and began to play a song that belonged among the darkest pits of hell. His fingers moved with insane speed and the bow moved with power as well. The fires burned as the Devil turned and with a sudden flair he spun and pointed his bow.

“And now,” he grinned, “let’s see how far you’ll go.”

Medic swallowed hard and brought the violin up. He had to admit that the Devil was good, and he didn’t know if it was a performance he could top. So he started low and played a few notes slow before throwing himself into the music. He worked the strings and trusted in the Engineer’s work not to fail.

As he played he poured his desperation into the notes, his fear and anger. It was easy to hear in the tune, but he kept at and tried to match the Devil’s work.

The Devil returned to his bow and played exactly what Medic had, starting off soft and low. When he picked up the pace the fires flared, and Medic started to feel a little scared. He couldn’t lose; the price was too high to pay. He answered with a song of his own, channeling his own emotions into the strings. He leaned into the music, playing with a ferocity and speed to match the Devil’s. He sank deep into his memories, moving the strings as he remembered Herr Wiezel playing.

As he did, he noticed a blue spark dance around him. It briefly formed the shape of a man playing a violin before flickering out. Emboldened, Medic closed his eyes and let his hands move however they wished, casting his mind back to his memories. His pace picked up, and he started to match the Devil.

The Devil frowned as he played faster, working the strings until they screamed and wailed. Medic answered him with a call of his own, a challenge, a new melody. The flames rose higher as the Devil worked to match him, and the blue light started to grow.

Their duel became a duet, the two battling through the harmony and melody, through fire and flames, through light and darkness. Medic could feel his mentor playing with him, guiding him onwards. At times his song was like a forgotten hero battling against the odds; at others it danced and wove with the Devil’s song like serpents intertwined. The Devil’s face contorted in fury, and Medic blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

Both of them pushed onwards, the flames and blue light clashing in a display of colors. There was no time to think; there was only music and wherever the notes took them. The light grew brighter and brighter, blinding him, enveloping him. Medic couldn’t see the Devil anymore; he couldn’t see anything beyond the bright light. Soon he couldn’t even see the ground he stood on, but he could hear the distant scream of the violin. It faded away and he felt like he was falling.

The impact was the last thing he knew before everything went black.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

Heavy hummed a lullaby softly, the kind he used to sing to his sisters when they were scared. He didn’t know if this was what the enemy Medic had meant by music, but if it helped his Doktor than he would do it.

His Doktor jerked slightly, but instead of subsiding again like he had for days before he rocked again more violently. He moved restlessly, shaking and twitching like he was having a seizure. Unsure of what to do, Heavy wrapped his arms around the man and held him close, trying to prevent the Doktor from hurting himself.

The movements became more and more violent, his face contorted in a grimace, and Heavy dared not let him go. He thrashed in Heavy’s embrace and a bloodcurdling scream tore from the man’s lips. It sounded to Heavy like the scream of a dying animal, and he feared for Medic’s life. He didn’t know what to do, so he held on.

The scream cut off abruptly, and Medic went still. Heavy froze in place, but then his Doktor breathed in deeply, and out. He relaxed slowly in Heavy’s arms and began to quietly snore.

Spy burst in, adjusting his tie and coat in the greatest display of disorder Heavy had ever seen in the man outside of a battle.

“What ‘appened? I ‘eard a scream,” Spy asked, dropping his h’s like bags of cement.

Heavy withdrew his arms in confusion. Medic curled up on his side and moved under the covers.

Heavy sat back. “I don’t know. He was going to hurt himself, I tried to protect him. Then he screamed... and now he snores?”

Spy walked over and gingerly placed his hand against Medic’s neck. His pulse was normal if slow, and his breathing was fine if the snores were any indication.

He smiled. “I believe, mon ami, zhat our good Doctor has fallen asleep. Zhat’s a good sign.” He was calming down; the h’s were making a comeback.

Heavy broke into a grin. “Da, that is good. I will wait with him.”

Spy bowed. “As you wish. Let us know when he wakes.” He paused, taking one last, steadying breath. “Bonsoir, Heavy,” he replied before leaving the room. Heavy covered Medic with the blanket, settled in, and prepared to wait.

\------------------------------------------

 

Medic shifted a little in his sleep, inhaled deeply, and woke up.

He lay still, not knowing where he was or how the battle had ended. He remembered the duel with the Devil and the blue light, and then everything went dark. Beyond a few slight twinges in his arm, he didn’t feel like he was in pain. He didn’t feel like he was in his uniform anymore either. He moved his fingers, or tried to; one hand wouldn’t move. The other one felt odd, as if it were touching soft fabric. He heard a sound like deep breathing nearby and wondered if he was in some new hell where monsters lurked.

Curiosity gained the better of him. He opened his eyes a fraction. Everything was blurry but eerily familiar. He recognized the colors, the outline of a hospital gurney edge and a chair, the edge of a blanket wrapped around him. The twinge in his arm looked like a connection to a fuzzy outline of an IV. There was no smoke, no fire, and he could just make out bird song at the edge of his hearing.

He turned his head and opened his eyes all the way. Next to the bed, hand holding his, was his Heavy. He felt his heart flutter. He had made it! He was finally free of his infernal memories and the Devil. He was finally home.

Medic tried to sit up and his movement woke Heavy, who lifted his head from the side of the gurney. They stared at each other for a moment.

Heavy reached over and tenderly placed a hand on Medic’s cheek. “Doktor? Do you hear me?” he asked.

Medic tried to speak and coughed, an ashy taste in his mouth. He swallowed hard and smiled at Heavy, placing a hand on the man’s arm. “Mein liebe, I hear you,” he croaked, his voice rusty from disuse.

Heavy’s face lit up with joy, and he carefully sat on the bed and drew Medic into his arms. Medic leaned weakly into his shoulder, curling up into the embrace. Heavy sighed with contentment, and Medic felt a sudden rush of emotion, a release of all of his pent up frustration, fear, and desperation. The nightmare was over, and he had woken up to find heaven. He felt tears spill down his cheeks and he let them, crying into the arms of the one he loved.

He was safe now, and that was all that mattered.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where you will find the most amazing artwork I could ever imagine for this section. I'm in tears at how touching and perfect it is. http://charley-the-dragon.deviantart.com/art/TF2-For-your-very-soul-576901893
> 
> For those who weren't sure, Herr Wiezel isn't possessing Medic. Medic is channeling the music, and the memory of the man is playing with him. He doesn't have to play alone.
> 
> If you can find all of the song references in this fic, mental cookies to you.
> 
> There's a song that I feel fits the duel perfectly. It's a Vitamin String Quartet cover of Through Fire and Flames, and I really recommend listening to it when you read that passage. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjufc7GMrCs
> 
> German:  
> Mein liebe: My love


	11. Epilogue (Did Your Hands Grow Cold?)

The next week of recovery had been difficult. Despite everyone’s best efforts he was still weak, and at first had to work hard to accomplish the simplest of tasks. The Administrator refused to give them any more days off, but even as he struggled to work on the battlefield his counterpart took just as long to recover from whatever toxin Spy had administered to him. After Heavy has explained to him what had been done to get the RED Medic to help him, he decided that someday he would give the man a hand in return. A fresh one, mind you; a frozen one would be rude.

The Devil’s words often echoed in his mind, and he wondered sometimes in the aftermath of battles if he perhaps took a little too much joy in battles or neglected healing others too much. War was a fact of life, even in a war where you fought five days of the week and never died for good. After his experience with the Devil, he tried to think of his fascination with medicine and dedication to his work as ways of coping. In an effort to lay his worries to rest, he tried to remind himself that everything he did was meant to better the human race. Many of the world’s most misunderstood people did great things and furthered humanity, even if humanity didn’t appreciate that until much later. His work would help people, and as long as he never forgot that he could hopefully move forward without fearing the Devil by his shoulder.

Despite the setbacks, he mostly remained in good spirits. He felt the most awake he had in years, and he was touched by his team’s efforts to bring him back. He hadn’t told his teammates much except for a few of the men, and for the most part they didn’t press him for details. Heavy rarely left his side, and while he would normally chide the man for following him around like a puppy, he enjoyed the company. It was better than being alone again.

In fact, quite a few of his other teammates would “stop by” to see how he was doing, or keep an eye on him whenever he was in battle. Before the incident he would have chased them off with a bonesaw; now he didn’t mind so much as long as they didn’t sneak up on him. The last time Spy stepped out of the shadows near him it involved lots of screaming, a night locked in his office, and an apology to the spook the next day, followed by a long talk.

He wondered if the Devil had taken on a similar likeness to a Spy on purpose, to make him afraid and wary of a teammate he was already slightly uneasy around. The first time that he had smelled cigarette smoke after he returned to the battlefield he had reacted so badly that he didn’t encounter the enemy Spy for the rest of the match. His own teammate had experienced a colorful past which probably involved being held captive, so he understood.

That was the strange thing. They all seemed to understand, Pyro most of all. He couldn’t understand the fire lighter most of the time, but sometimes it would just sit with him and doodle pictures until he knew what it meant. Heavy listened and gave a shoulder to lean on, and he was there to hold him when he woke up screaming in the night. Sometimes he still saw fire in his dreams and wondered if being free had all just been a cruel trick. Sometimes he even wondered if it had all been just a dream. How could someone duel the Devil in their own mind over their soul? There were days that he doubted himself, even though the memories refused to fade. Those were the bad days.

There were also good days too. The day he was finally strong enough to keep up with Heavy in battle while weighed down by his Medigun and survive, that had been worth a moment to rejoice. Today was another good day; today they had won.

There was a knock at his office door. Medic looked up and adjusted his glasses. “Come in!” he called.

The door opened to reveal the Engineer, who held his hard hat in his hands. The doves fluttered on their perches with his approach, and Medic looked to the side and smiled at them. Heavy had taken care of them while he was gone, but they were very happy to have him back. Archimedes was hard pressed to let him out of his sight when he was in the operating room, and for now seemed more interested in watching Medic than nestling in chest cavities.

The Engineer fiddled with his hard hat.  “Heya, Doc, how’re ya holdin’ up?”

Medic smiled at him. “Eh, I am doing vell Herr Engineer, danke. Is zere somezhing I can help you vith?”

“Well,  we were fixin’ to have a little celebration down in the rec room, an’ we were hopin you’d join us. Don’t give me some excuse neither, we’d love to have ya. The paperwork can wait.” Engineer smiled. “Bring your violin an’ we’ll play a few tunes. Sound good?”

Medic’s eyebrows raised, and he grinned back at the Engineer. “Zat sounds wunderbar, Herr Engineer. I’ll be along in a few minutes, ja?”

Engineer nodded. “Alright, and don’t you try to skirt out. We’ll be waitin’ for ya.” He exited the room and left the door open.

Medic pushed his chair out and pulled the violin case from underneath the desk, setting it down on top of the papers strewn across the surface.

On the front of the case there was an angry scar burnt into the wood. Medic looked at it for a long moment.

He chuckled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Did Medic banish his inner demon, or did the Devil get the last laugh? That's all up to you to decide.
> 
> The chapter title is a line from The Devil Comes Back to Georgia, the sequel song to The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I listened to the Vitamin String Quartet cover of Carry On My Wayward Son to get the proper mood.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who helped me along the way, especially penguinlove2506. Thank you also to the fine musicians and artists that inspired me to write this story. Inspiration can come from the most unlikeliest of places.
> 
> Thank you again to Charlie-the-Dragon for the amazing artwork. It's stunning. http://charley-the-dragon.deviantart.com/art/TF2-For-your-very-soul-576901893
> 
> Leave a comment! Feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> EDIT 1/22/17: I love you all, thank you for your kind words and delight in the story. As some of you may know I do my best to stick to canon. Recently the newest comic came out (The Naked and The Dead), and it seems that RED Medic really did sell his soul after all! Now as mentioned before, I struggle with the 'RED/BLU are they the same person or not' dilemma, and canon seems to be very happy with ignoring the problem. In this case I'm going to assume that similar things happened to each person on the divide. BLU dueled the Devil (the results of which are up to you), and RED sold his soul. I haven't decided what to do about the "RED Spy is RED Scout's dad" thing yet. Given a reason to, I'll figure it out.
> 
> And to those of you still interested, stay tuned. I'm working on a monster (50k+ words probably) story I like to call Sandstorm, and I think you might like it. Mystery, intrigue, explosions... what more can I say? For now, that's all you're going to get. ;)


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